First Aid's foot fetish, the gestalts rank themselves via interfacing combat, Starscream makes Soundwave's day via a command performance, and Soundwave wishes those slagging eggs were his.
Title: Candy From Strangers, Pt. 20
Warning: Foot fetish, coercive programming/dubcon, spanking, domination/submission, gore
Rating: R
Continuity: IDW, G1, Shattered Glass, Bayverse (pre-'Dark of the Moon')
Characters: First Aid, Ambulon, Combaticons, Constructicons, Motormaster, Starscream/Soundwave
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors.
Motivation (Prompt): Random ideas, and two commissions by the wonderful Baiku! Thank you!
[* * * * *]
Foot fetish - Whirl
[* * * * *]
He knew all their specs, the public data and some he shouldn't have even known. He'd given Pharma the sweetest cyberpuppy visor until the clinic Head grumbled something and let him into the locked records. That probably hadn't helped his case any when the evaluation on his mental health came along, but oh well.
The point was, he knew what every Wrecker's feet looked like in design specs and pictures. He'd even combed through back issues of the fanzine for fanart, copying and cropping out the best pictures.
They still couldn't hold a light bulb to seeing Whirl's tiny stabilizers in person.
First Aid played it cool. He played it calm. He was never so glad to have a visor as when Whirl went clomping through the corridors of the Lost Light, gangly legs as thin as those feet on the ends. Of course, the visor didn't hide how his fans clicked on, but Ambulon was used to it. The ward manager looked at him, looked after the ex-Wrecker, and sighed.
Then he smacked First Aid sharply upside the head. "Reboot and get over it, for Adaptus' sake! You'll be seeing plenty of him from now on, if I know a trouble-maker when i see him, so try not to slobber too obviously every time he tip-toes through the door."
First Aid had been ready to smack him back right up until that mental image. Tip-toeing. Turning spindly joint so the foot eased forward, the delicate overlapping segments clicking. The narrow points at the tips scraping over the floor, and the heel spurs dragging after. Oh, those heels spurs. He'd spent hours back on Messatine scrolling over a zoomed in design spec, reading the measurements in a low whisper. Combined with the stick-thin ankle joint, the whole foot composition took his breath away. How could something that looked so delicate be so tough?
Ambulon shook his head and smacked him again.
[* * * * *]
Hierarchy of Harems - the hierarchy between combiners teams is decided by how well the leaders can clang the other gestalts. 'Attacks' are measured in pleasure, as the point is to make the enemy 'harem' climax until they can't recover, or lose the match trying. The objective is to drain their stamina and render them unable to continue.
[* * * * *]
Onslaught wasn't normally one for pacing, but the flashes of surprise and bliss through the gestalt links came at just infrequent enough intervals that he couldn't anticipate them. It kept catching him off guard. That made it difficult to sit still. The Combaticons worked under the narrowest openings possible on their gestalt links, but that made the antsy feeling worse. With the links crimped down, he should have felt nothing.
To feel anything, especially this strongly...
He doubled over and gasped, suckerpunched by a wave of pleasure that started in a small eddy and clawed across his entire sensor network in a riptide. Was that - how was - had Scrapper made the whole team overload at the same time?
He had. Oh, he had. Well before the Combaticons straggled back to their joint quarters, leaning on each other and shamefaced, Onslaught knew they'd lost the match. Even if he stood up to Scrapper from now on, his team wouldn't be able to. They'd be at his back avoiding Scrapper's gaze, gestalt links pinging memories of what the Constructicon leader had done to them and their bodies priming for a repeat.
Vortex came back carrying his rotor array, for Primus' sake. How was Onslaught supposed to compete with that?!
[* * * * *]
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Bonecrusher clawed at the floor and squealed as that punishing hand came crashing down on his aft yet again, sending a powerful, juddering shock through his whole body. The impact slammed his skidplate against his already sensitized nervous system wires, blasting pressure across the nodes and sending hot flashes through him that should have been damage reports but weren't quite enough to trip the sensation that far. Something just under pain seared through his body in huge jolts of charge that should have been pain, he wished it was pain, but it wasn't.
The hand slammed down again, and he cursed the shrill shriek his strained vocalizer produced instead of the protesting shout he'd tried for. His heels kicked up, feet leaving the floor, but the hand on the center of his lower back was strong. The mech holding him over his knee was powerful. New, with systems more advanced and metal alloys stronger than his own. Bonecrusher should have seen this coming - but how could he have? It wasn't supposed to be like this!
His vocalizer shorted out as the next spank scooped at the base of his aft, hitting his thighs as well as his already hot, shaking skidplate. The metal skreeled for him, and his heels kicked again.
The Constructicon's fingers tried to get a grip on the floor, tried to haul him away, but he succeeded no better than Long Haul before him, or Mixmaster before Long Haul. Those two already sat on the Stunticon common room's couch, hands tucked under to cushion their sore afts. They wore expressions of stunned, exhausted, emptied arousal, memory still lingering long after they'd stopped being able to summon the charge for another interface.
Speaking of which, Bonecrusher went from struggling to bowed over Motormaster's knee as the charge finally peaked and obliterated his hazy thought processes. The pleasure only spiked higher when the truckformer delivered a series of sharp blows throughout the overload, and the demolitionist moaned little staccato sounds in time.
When he went limp, whimpering quietly in the afterglow, the spanking finally stopped. For now. This wasn't over yet. The Stunticon pushed him around his lap, snarling his engine irritably as he rearranged the larger mech into a better position to resume the spanking. Bonecrusher twitched feebly. A big, broad hand rubbed across his dented aft, thumbing the scuff marks, and he made a low sound of pleading.
Motormaster was a rough fragger in every sense of the word, but he'd turned out to be better at this than anyone anticipated. He actually paused to ask, "Had enough?"
The hand felt large and burning hot as it pressed down firmly. Bonecrusher wished frantically that it wasn't sending thrills of that near-pain across his circuits. "No," he admitted in an embarrassed, cowed whisper. Scrapper was going to be so disappointed in him. He was supposed to be stronger than this, stronger than Motormaster, because Motormaster was the upstart newbie team leader.
But the hand on his aft felt confident and very, very good, and he yelped as Motormaster started smacking him right back up toward climax one more time.
[* * * * *]
Up against the wall, visors pale and hands involuntarily held behind themselves like pathetic defenses against the inevitable, Hook and Scavenger watched the brutal spanking resume. Their systems were already simmering in a state of constant desire, interface systems jumping in sympathetic shocks with every loud clang of hand meeting aft. Scavenger stiffened, swallowing a soft sound as he peaked right there. His port and jack crackled quiet traces of electricity in bolts of yellow and blue over his hatch.
Hook shuddered into his first overload not long after, visor pained and lower lip caught between his teeth as he jerked and twitched, sensor-rich hands pressing to his own aft as if to feel the heavy impacts on his plating. It left his port latchkeys clutching and jack throbbing behind his hatch. He felt achingly empty and already building toward another climax as his fuelpump thumped hard enough to shake his body. The insides of his thighs pressed to each other, but he contained the urge to squirm. Scavenger didn't bother. Hook felt vaguely ashamed to be associated with the fidgeting mech. He also kind of envied him.
Bonecrusher cried out again, trapped somewhere between agony and ecstasy, and bucked into another overload. Motormaster held him down and spanked his skidplate in hard smacks that made the pained sounds break into short, begging squeals under every blow until the demolitionist slumped at long last, gone limp in the euphoric relief of being wrung utterly dry of charge. It was the final release. They could all see it in the way he lay over Motormaster's knee, no longer struggling and just meekly, tiredly accepting the hands on his back and aft.
This newbuild had won the match, dominating and driving them into the ground with pleasure without even a touch to port or jack. He hadn't even fingered their interface hatches, and not for lack of trying on their part. The three Constructicons already bent over his knee had tried to offer their jacks and sockets multiple times, anything to spare their raw sensor networks, but he'd refused to properly frag them. The end result was total victory. Hook and Scavenger had come while merely standing here against the wall, well before Motormaster even yanked them over his knee. Mixmaster and Long Haul were on the couch watching, stamina drained. Bonecrusher was breathing deep and harsh, defeated.
Not one of them knew how they'd be able to face this mech again without the memory of this hitting so hard it'd bring them to their knees. Which was sort of the point of establishing just who was in charge of the combiner teams, but Motormaster had managed the feat in a particularly cruel manner. He hadn't actually interfaced them. The lack of sexual contact meant that the next time he even looked at them, the rush of sensor memories could very well overload them on the spot.
The Stunticon commander's big, strong hands brought so much pleasure it hurt. They'd remember that.
Right now those hands pet over Bonecrusher's skidplate in a way that wasn't gentle - oh no, in no way was Motormaster gentle - but nonetheless soothed the Constructicon. The stroking grounded him after the loss of charge. Soon enough, Motormaster would settle him on the couch between Long Haul and Mixmaster, sore aft wincing away from the seat but obediently sitting where ordered.
Then it would be the next Contructicon's turn.
Scavenger fidgeted. Hook clenched his hands. Neither tried to get away.
[* * * * *]
Motormaster and Scrapper stared.
"You…didn't even try," Scrapper repeated, piecing the words together. He sat back from the table and look over at Motormaster, who was holding up the wall nearby. It was an automatic thing honed by eons as a gestalt commander. The new hierarchy put him under Motormaster, and therefore he looked to Motormaster first. That was how it was.
Except Motormaster's acceptance of that role was one of construction. He'd been forged into a combiner, every strut and string of code unwaveringly aware of the rules of their insular society and his place in it. Confused, he frowned at Onslaught. The gestalt commander's role was to determine the hierarchy. He knew that. Scrapper knew that. Actual lust had nothing to do with it, just as the subordinate team members cooperated with the matches without a second thought.
So to hear Onslaught say he hadn't tried to dominate the Stunticon team because none of them were his type boggled Motormaster and Scrapper's minds. Type didn't matter. A gestalt commander interfaced as a ritualized combat. Pleasure was a weapon to determine the hierarchy. If a mech couldn't sustain charge, he lost. In Motormaster's case, he'd ruthlessly taken advantage of alternative methods to make sure he could exhaust the Constructicons without depleting himself. He'd expected Onslaught to be his major rival in this battle because of the tactician's reputation for seeking out weak points to exploit, but…apparently not.
"Maybe it has to do with how you were made," Scrapper mused. He rubbed his chin, squinting at nothing as he thought the problem over. "Motormaster's the new leader," no question there; his Constructicons were still wincing over their stinging backsides, "but perhaps a secondary match for second place?" He didn't want to offer up his team for another round when they'd been so soundly trounced by Motormaster, but this was unsettling. Onslaught was supposed to fight for a place in the hierarchy, not show up at their meeting and flatly declare he'd take whatever ranking was left.
The Combaticon leader's visor went distant as he pictured the match. "…no. I - they're still just…no." He made a helpless gesture. "No offense meant, but I don't find your team attractive at all. I can't see myself interfacing with any of them. I'd rather not."
The other two commanders exchanged another bewildered glance. "We can't force you to interface," Scrapper said.
"Puts your mechs in a weird spot, though." Motormaster pushed off the wall and strode over to stare down the larger Decepticon. Onslaught looked away first. Motormaster smirked, but there was still a conflicted look in his optics. Onslaught hadn't even tried. "Send 'em over. I'll make it official."
Onslaught nodded and silently left, accepting the dismissal and his place with an almost audible sigh of relief. His team wouldn't be happy, at least not at first.
They probably would be after Motormaster was done with them.
[* * * * *]
Blast Off held in a sigh as Vortex all but vibrated beside him. "Spanking. I haven't had a spanking in ages." Likely since the interrogator started getting his reputation for turning the tables on his partners. Woe was him. Behold the burden of being a sadist as well as a masochist.
Blast Off gave his teammate an unimpressed look. He had no sympathy.
Vortex vibrated back at him. "Long Haul's still limping! This is gonna be great!"
Behind them, Swindle shifted uncomfortably. Blast Off stopped himself from doing the same. A spanking didn't sound enjoyable in the least to them, but neither of them enjoyed extremes.
Vortex, however, lived for them. "Spaaaaanking," he whispered. He might have been trying to freak them out, but Blast Off thought it was genuine glee. The thought of being bent over Motormaster's knee and abused until his nervous system overloaded from the built-up stress had him floating in a happy little masochistic cloud.
Blast Off faced the door and tried not to think about enduring his own turn. The gestalt programming wrapped his thoughts in a submissive cloud - Onslaught had already resigned them to their place - but it didn't help ease his apprehensive thoughts. The programming wouldn't do much beyond enhance the pleasure once he was dominated. He clung to the weary knowledge that his body would become aroused enough to slide his mind through this. He didn't expect anything more than that.
No way would this be as simple as last time. Er, maybe not 'simple.' 'Easy to endure,' perhaps. They'd walked into the match with no idea how the ritualized gestalt combat even worked, and they'd left staggering and punchdrunk, still buzzing with the afterecho of multiple overloads. Scrapper had seduced them, sneaking lust up on the Combaticons until they found themselves trembling in exhaustion afterward. Blast Off had been pleasantly surprised by how strongly he'd reacted to the deft handling of an experienced gestalt team leader.
Motormaster? Ha. He could only hope the gestalt programming would accept his lack of desire as a lack of charge. He wanted to get this over with quickly.
"How a mech fights is no measure of how he interfaces," Onslaught had said as if imparting wisdom. Brawl had laughed in his face, because Onslaught fought like the tactician he was but apparently couldn't plan his way through clanging four stupid Stunticons. Motormaster fought in brash, blunt violent surges. Blast Off really couldn't see that translating to anything but a brute-force approach to the berth.
When the Stunticon leader - new head of the gestalt hierarchy, as their programming informed them all - opened the door, the Combaticons braced for attack in the mech's signature style.
He looked at Swindle and smirked. "I've got some good money laid on you finishing first."
Swindle frowned but had to ask. His greed compelled him. "How much money?"
"Check."
The conmech's optics went blank as he pinged the betting board. "…that's a lot of money." Purple optics widened. "That's in my name." Swindle's jaw slowly dropped as it hit him what it meant. Blast Off could almost hear Motormaster's gambit snap into place, because that was indeed a lot of money. Money that Swindle would only win if he overloaded over and over until he couldn't overload any more.
The smallest Combaticon slumped, optics bewildered as greed steamrolled him. "That's not fair."
"You magnificent bastard," Vortex said, openly admiring.
Swindle's fans switched on at a loud hum, and the Jeep's hands went to his seams, stroking hard. "I'll take care of it," he said in a strangled voice.
Motormaster smirked some more. "Yeah, I thought you would." His optics went past him to focus on the other Combaticons. One down, three to go.
Blast Off suddenly got the feeling that this was going to be nothing like he'd expected.
[* * * * *]
Vortex talked big, but he had the stamina of his altmode: quick turn-around but a hard crash when he went down the final time.
When Motormaster stapled the manacles to the wall, they held Vortex's wrists far enough over his head that the 'copter was forced face-first into the wall. He pulled, excited that the chains didn't give. Two per cuff, and an extra one for the collar choking him. He thought about resisting when the Stunticon rammed a knee between his own, but he wanted those anklets. He wanted to be held helpless while this mech dominated his body to screaming climax after climax.
Sure, Motormaster had handled Swindle in a quick turn of events. That didn't mean the mech wasn't fantastically brutal most of the time. Oh, frag, he was looking forward to this. He'd been running hot since Onslaught reported that Motormaster would be making the hierarchy official tonight.
Vortex let his feet be spread and fanned his rotors out hopefully. He was so turned on his vents were whistling. Yes, please. Brutalize him.
Clamps pinched the tips of his blades, and he wriggled, since that was the extent he could move. The chains had him spread out and powerless. It felt fantastic, and it was getting better yet. Motormaster was attaching the straps on the clamps to winches on the wall in preparation for bending his rotors forward over his shoulder. He couldn't be more thrilled with that plan. His interface system whined arousal as his temperature rose another few notches, and Vortex tried to peer over his shoulder at the smaller Decepticon. He could barely see Blast Off and Brawl from here.
His teammates were watching, visors a bit alarmed by the amount of hardware dedicated to restraining him. Vortex squirmed happily. He was quivering at the ready, interface hatches popped open for easy access. His ports ached in anticipation of a blast of charge pouring into them, shocking and overpowering. He was getting hot and bothered over just the idea.
Motormaster dragged a hand down his rotor assembly, pushed into the small of his back, and settled it on his aft. Vortex arched as much as he could and tried not to moan too loudly because they hadn't even started yet and he was beginning to overheat.
The hand left his aft.
"You, shuttle. Come here."
Wait, what? Vortex twisted, trying to see. "Hey, what are you doing? Where you are you going?"
The blur at the edge of his vision sneered. "To 'face someone else."
No. No, he couldn't. He wouldn't! Vortex's plating was tingling he was so charged up, and - and -
Well, frag. And here he was, the sadist who got off on the sounds of torture, stuck banging his forehelm on the wall as he was forced to listen to sounds that were eerily similar taken out of context: the quiet pauses where a victim breathed, shivering in dread; the cries and hushed whimpers; the low moans of surrender. All the sounds of mechs being tortured - or building toward overload.
All sounds bouncing back to him off the wall as Vortex writhed, listened, and begged for a touch, just a single hand to grind against, a jack plugging his port. Anything! Primus, Unicron, anyone! Please, please frag him, please!
By the time Motormaster brought Blast Off to the shuttle's first climax, Vortex had his forehelm against the wall while gasping to cool himself. He wasn't going to last long. He was on his fourth overload already. This was a private Pit. He was stuck in the Pit enduring an eternity of hands-off, delicious interface as his imagination worked him to the pinnacle repeatedly without even a whisper of relief even in the midst of the shuddering pleasure of overload. Blast Off groaned, sounding so tired Vortex's vents sobbed over how perfect the shuttle sounded in exhaustion.
The Stunticon commander leisurely wandered over to winch down one blade, and Vortex wailed.
He didn't last long at all, and when he crashed, he didn't get back up again.
[* * * * *]
(For Baiku) Shattered Glass Soundwave/Starscream - fluffy holiday + dominate Starscream
[* * * * *]
"I just don't get it. You and him. He's just so...and you're so not...and yeah." Cliffjumper gestured in vague hope that explained what he didn't understand.
Starscream didn't look up from the program code on the screen, but it only needed a few more tweaks before he'd finish. He could multitask and talk to his friend at the same time. His smile was all for the displaced Autobot. "You're not the first one to say that." Although he might have been the most blunt about it. Bombshell had made gentle inquiries into their wellbeing once it became clear he and Soundwave were involved in something longer than a mere cable-swap, and Megatron had of course made a point of congratulating them only after asking if they were both happy.
Cliffjumper, Starscream feared, still looked at them and saw the Decepticons of his own universe. The differences were plain to see via optics, and the red minibot did try. The Decepticons all gave him some leeway, knowing he had to fight millions of years of battle-honed instinct. In that light, Cliffjumper was doing rather well.
There were some things he had more trouble accepting, it seemed, and Soundwave and Starscream were one of them. As a couple, that was, since separately they were nothing at all like their counterparts and he knew it. It wasn't the mechs involved so much as the idea of Decepticons deeply committed to each other in a loving relationship. That left him blinking. Starscream could practically smell processors overheating from here.
So the flyer tried to explain with as much plain sincerity as he could pack into his voice. "It's not really so surprising. I'm not as outgoing, and he's not as scientifically minded, but we fit together. Once you get past the boisterous exterior, Soundwave's ember is filled to the brim with that soft, sweet fluff the humans like, what is it called…" Looking up at nothing as he tried to recall the word, Starscream had no idea how soft and sweet he looked in his own right, smiled in absent fondness as he thought about his lover.
Cliffjumper looked at that silly, infatuated expression. Somewhere inside him, his mental constructs of two mechs also named 'Soundwave' and 'Starscream' shrieked in melodramatic distaste, withering away as they were doused in the lovey-dovey reality before him. Primus, he'd never be able to look at his universe's Decepticons again without imagining this.
Which was actually kind of funny when he thought about it. Yeah, he could live with that. "Marshmallow," he suggested, trying to contain his grin. If only Starscream's evil counterpart could see this version of himself.
Blue optics blinked in his direction. "Oh, yes! His ember's filled with marshmallow. The warmer it becomes, the larger it grows, and before you know it - " White hands spread in helpless amusement. " - he's got you! You're stuck."
"A horrible fate," Cliffjumper said, still grinning.
That got a slightly confounded look before the flyer realized he wasn't being serious. Sarcasm sometimes passed the Decepticons of the negative polarity universe by. Cliffjumper knew that, and he made sure to add a wink to clue the bigger mech in.
Starscream relaxed and smiled back at him. "Just terrible. I'll never escape his clutches. However, my terrible fate has been going on for exactly two hundred and sixty vorns as of 6:18 AM this morning, so if you'll excuse me," he saved the program he'd been working on with a final, triumphant click of keys and turned in a flourish of wide shoulders, "I need to go make my ooey-gooey captor's day something to remember."
Cliffjumper looked at him for a long moment. Starscream stood tall and glittering in red and white, a vision of sleek plating and streamlined armor. This mech was six kinds of heroic before breakfast, twelve before noon, and the Autobot burst out laughing. It was too surreal for words.
"Happy anniversary," he gasped out when his friend dropped the noble pose and took a step forward in concern. A flailing hand waved him out the door. "You two have fun. Tell me how it goes."
Tensed wings relaxed down. Ah. Incredulous laughter, not malicious laughter. That was the laughter of Cliffjumper being unable to reconcile the disparities between their universes. Starscream smiled kindly at his small friend. "I shall." He gave an extravagant bow and strode toward the door while Cliffjumper shook his head after him.
The halls of the Nemesis seemed deserted as he walked toward the common room, but the feeling of abandonment only lasted until he logged onto Yatter. He'd kept off social networking sites in order to finish that program code, but the other Decepticons had been posting updates on their (unclassified) doings all morning. From the look of things, they'd been busy.
None so busy as Ravage, at least in terms of internet activity. 'Ravagekitteh' was always the busiest Decepticon online, however little he got done in reality. Today, his account had been particularly active posting excited blurbs about his friends' activities.
7:00:00 "gmorning zzzz wanna sleep moar."
7:00:54 "dun wanna get up but hihihihi."
7:03:36 "no 1s here. Breakfast timez?"
The updates continued until the hyperactive Recordicon finally got his morning ration and bounced fully awake in the space of two minutes. Starscream could tell because of the time stamp. There were suddenly more capital letters scattered through the posts.
Now awake, Ravage had tracked down his carrier, and thus began his adorable take on the special day. Starscream skimmed the Yatter feed and chuckled.
7:45:16 "O HAI do U no what day 2day is?! 2day is teh best day!"
7:46:03 "S0undwve is all teh happies 2day LOL!"
7:58:39 [Picture removed for violation of Yatter posting policies] "Can U C me? Im waving! Look what S0undwve got *scream! So cool!"
8:01:04 "awww S0undwave takes teh pic down bc *scream might C teh prezzie b4 it's wrapped"
8:02:01 " SirRadical LOL srry S0undwve."
Starscream quickened his pace, charmed and a little exasperated. Soundwave had gotten him a present? It was Starscream's turn to give a present this vorn, something that they had agreed on long ago due to Soundwave's resemblance to a marshmallow in armor. Once exposed to the heat of love and romantic passion, something piled on in spades in the privacy of their quarters, the white-and-blue Decepticon melted. Completely and totally melted into the softest emotions imaginable. If Starscream hadn't gotten him to agree to an every-other-vorn gift schedule, the flyer would find himself inundated with presents by his doting lover every vorn, at the middle of every vorn, and probably in between as well.
It made coming up with gifts for the communication mech a tad bit difficult. Starscream knew he shouldn't feel pressured - Soundwave would never put pressure on him for anything - but he already felt somewhat guilty that his sense of discretion kept them from the public displays of affection Soundwave loved to indulge in. When his lover went to such lengths to find many presents for him and made his adoration of him obvious at every turn, it motivated Starscream to pick his own gifts with care. The presents he gave had to be extremely thoughtful, if not perfect.
Even if giving one such present made him feel uncomfortable. Not unduly so, but Starscream had to pause on the common room's threshold to pull in a deep breath. Right. Showtime. He could do this. If he could act the part of Megatron's Second-in-Command despite his many doubts as to his worthiness of the position, he could act this part. Soundwave would never outright ask him to play it, and that's what he hoped would make it a great surprise.
The role closed around him in a poor fit. Flexing his wings, he exhaled slowly. It was only one day. He could play the confident, take-charge mech for Soundwave if that's what would turn his lover's fans. Surely the behavior wouldn't feel too odd.
Really, he never thought of himself as diffident or a recluse. Starscream was more inclined to say he knew his limits and approached them with humility. He still protested Megatron appointing him as Second, but that was because there were patently more talented flyers and tactical minds in the ranks. He wasn't shy; he liked people and enjoyed being with them. He just had a lot to do in the laboratories and tended to get caught up in his work. Starscream knew himself.
That's what he thought, anyway. Everyone else in the Nemesis knew better and would grin at each other in shared mirth behind his back to hear his description of himself. He was too humble for his own good, honestly.
The scientist didn't recognize his own greatness, and while Soundwave had fallen in love with him as he was, the carrier mech also held a deeply-buried secret. Soundwave desired to see him take on the appearance of the powerful, swaggering lord of the air he could have been. A bucketload more pride and arrogance, and Starscream could have ruled a city.
Soundwave fantasized about that mech. Not often, but once and a while. It wasn't that Soundwave wanted his lover to become a pretentious braggart who kicked him around as a lesser being, but…well, Soundwave's typical attitude toward hierarchy was that the titles were nice but everyone was a bro waiting to happen. In the Decepticons, ignoring rank for the people inside was almost the standard affair.
The thought of really being treated as beneath Starscream's rank, trapped under those lovely thrusters and ordered about as his subordinate? It sent an illicit thrill shooting through him. They were equals, lovers and friends, but Soundwave kind of wanted to have the power taken from him by the suave, cruelly confident mech Starscream could have been.
Thanks to little birdie (of the hipster Recordicon variety), Starscream had found out about that secret wish. The violation of privacy made him uncomfortable and the false personae felt strange, but the flyer straightened up and held his head high. He could do this. If it fulfilled a deeply-held lust held by his selfless, wonderful second half, then Starscream would strut into the common room projecting self-importance on all fronts.
Even if half a dozen mechs immediately looked up to stare. They didn't matter. Er, no, they did, but not right now. The only one who mattered was the royal blue Cassette carrier sitting at the table taping a collection of bed sheets into elaborate wrapping paper for the box in front of him.
"Soundwave! Where are you?" His tone demanded attention, right here and now, and Starscream looked down his nose at his lover when the mech spun around at the table. The box was shoved behind the mech's back in a sad attempt at hiding it, but Starscream concentrated on glaring for the moment. "There you are. Where have you been?"
Shock smacked the yellow visor wide. Soundwave faltered, outstretched hand falling as he took in the haughty look, the pricked wings, and that tone. He'd never heard Starscream speak like that, even at his angriest or most righteous.
It was sort of hot.
"Screamer, uh, I've been, um, here. Working. Sort of." He shifted, still trying to hide the box. "Wh-what's the haps..?"
Starscream sauntered toward the table and leaned down, ignoring the question in favor of picking up the end of Soundwave's bandanna to wind around his fingers. "Working. Here. I see. And here I expected the most gorgeous Decepticon on the base to dance attendance on me today," hinting heavily that he deserved it, of course he deserved it, he deserved it the most, "but no. I had to hunt you down. How do you think that made me feel, Sir Soundwave?" He sneered lightly. "It's our anniversary, and I had to go searching for your pretty self. You've lowered me to manual labor." He leaned over further, pulling the bandanna tight until Soundwave's stunned visor stared directly into his own optics. "Naughty naughty."
"I - uh - I - " Fans kicked into high gear. Starscream had rarely seen Soundwave at a loss for words, but he could get used to it. The flabbergasted look was a good one, but he was of the opinion that Soundwave looked good in anything.
He used the bandanna to turn Soundwave's head and ex-vented a slow stream of warm air into one sensitive audio. It earned a shudder. "I believe you owe me an apology," he whispered, "Sir Soundwave."
People were gaping. Starscream refused to acknowledge them. Instead, he flicked his tongue out for a quick lick over that hidden audio receptor.
Soundwave melted into a puddle of goo. "Oh wow, Screamer. This's - I can't even tell you how - just - dude. You are hot stuff." That was a major compliment in flustered terms. Starscream smiled, turning the flattered expression into a smug smirk at the last second, and heat poured out of Soundwave's vents. The carrier mech fumbled on the table amidst the bed sheets and thrust a box of energon goodies at him. "Sorry I wasn't - "
"That's Lord hot stuff to you," Starscream interrupted, because hearing an actual apology would make him feel very bad. This was just play, after all. "You may give me these to make up for your mistake," he decided, tapping a finger on the box. His tanks would hate him later for feeding them goodies without having his ration first, but it'd be worth the ache.
Besides, he'd feel better if Soundwave could fuss over him later in private. Then they could snuggle and cuddle without all the other Decepticons staring at them. He was looking forward to that, even if he wasn't looking forward to the sick surge in his tanks from feeding them goodies on empty.
This was about Soundwave, however, not him.
The flyer threw himself into the seat beside his lover. Tipping the chair back, he set his feet on the table and went for an insufferably arrogant pose. It felt embarrassing and rude. He was certain he looked foolish.
He looked like a prince. Soundwave's fans whirred, a mechanical moan, and he almost fell out of his chair to kneel beside him. "Lord hot stuff, yeah, you're that. You're totally that."
Visor and optics locked together for a long, long minute, seconds ticking by as yellow and blue met. They gazed into their past and future and how much they meant to one another. Some things didn't change, no matter the current act. Starscream's nerves smoothed into soft warmth in his chest at the naked adoration in Soundwave's visor.
Without looking away, Soundwave opened the box and selected a single goodie. Starscream's optics stayed level, his expression coolly distant, but he opened his mouth to allow his worshipping lover to feed him the goodie. Fingertips lingered on his lips and stroked over his tongue. He closed his mouth enough to suck them clean, and his lover made a small wanting noise at the tiny lick that promised so much more later.
The back of Soundwave's fingers brushed down a pale cheek when they withdrew, and Starscream turned his head enough to press his lips to them in passing. It wasn't a kiss. It was more of an acknowledgement, and optics smoked dark twilight blue as he tilted his head back in a luxurious stretch.
Something not just watched but memorized by the mech kneeling at his side. "You rock my world," Soundwave said in a shaky voice.
"I know," Starscream purred.
One hand felt around in the box for the next treat because Soundwave couldn't tear his visor away from the long length of jet stretching in front of him. Handfuls of shining armor waited to be explored, but not now. No, he'd be verbally smacked down if he laid a finger on this magnificent mech right now. Restraining himself under Starscream's knowing gaze ramped him up into burning, and it was a glorious fire.
He needed this jet, and today was the anniversary of how long he'd had him. The gift was in the wrapping, this vorn.
Best. Gift. Ever.
[* * * * *]
(For Baiku) Bayverse Soundwave/Starscream - dominant, egg-brooding Starscream + envious Soundwave + rough/gory sex
[* * * * *]
No one wanted a connection. No one expected a connection.
That in mind, his first conclusion was the logical one. The flyer had gone crazy. "You're insane!"
He had no time to do more than shout, because momentum won where height failed. Thrusters sent them skidding across the floor, both mechs fighting to stay on top as they rolled in a violent flurry of punching and raw battle fury. His attacker doubled over, backward-jointed legs folding in partial transformation to get between them and kick in a savage squeal of rending metal as the sharp talons on the tips of trisected feet dug into Soundwave's wide back.
An elbow flung back to crack into the flyer's face, but Starscream seized it by the forearm and slammed it forward again. Two fists crashed down on top of the egg racks, but one had a fistful of the others' tensile cables. Serrated claws dug in and began to slice.
Soundwave struggled, his larger frame gaining enough advantage to turn halfway over before the smaller flightframe on top of him kicked once more, thrusters jumping on for a split second right before gravity brought Starscream slamming back down. He clawed up Soundwave's side, uncaring of how sharp-taloned toes ripped through armor on his way up. He met the communication specialist's outraged roar with an enraged shriek, and his talons dug into internal parts under the armor.
The roar became a shrill creel of shock and pain. Starscream's optics narrowed as he dug into Soundwave's waist, threatening far worse, and his hand stayed clamped tight. He had the advantage and no intention of giving it up.
The satellite altmode Soundwave had adopted for the Earth mission was relatively huge. However, most of it collapsed in on itself transforming back to rootmode. The panels spread to an intimidatingly broad width behind his shoulders, but the metal sheets were thin. They were rich with data receptors and circuitry instead of thickly armored. The shifting panels merely covered vital parts in multiple layers instead of actually protecting them. Soft internal tubing, vulnerable data transfer cables, and important hydraulic systems were easy to expose and easier to exploit once exposed.
This altmode was meant to gather and assess the information of Earth via hacking, not combat. On the other hand, Starscream was streamlined for fighting, every part of him armored into a defensive shell. That shell had then flung himself on the offense against Soundwave's weaker bodyframe.
The outcome of this conflict could have been a toss-up if Soundwave had seen it coming, but an all-knowing communication specialist didn't know much without any communication. Starscream had hurtled into him claws-first from above the moment he hacked the door and stepped inside, and the flyer's thrusters had tumbled them across the hatchery. Wide, thin paneling obstructed more than helped while attempting to fight in the midst of a rolling scramble. He hadn't stood a chance.
By the time Soundwave managed to stagger upright, his altmode panels were dented and in disarray. Most of the transformation hinges were broken out of alignment. Ropes of internal parts hung loose from his waist, spurting hydraulic fluid and oil to the floor.
It made the footing treacherous. It smelled like butchery and war.
Still clinging to his back, he could hear Starscream inhale deeply. His visor widened. He braced himself, but the hand closed around his wrist yanked the cables.
Claws sliced. Metal sheered. White noise blotted out the snapping ping-ping-schlurch of cables cutting and pressurized hydraulic pipes popping. Mechanical agony screamed through the hatchery as Soundwave spat feedback and binary curses in equal measure. The hatchlings shifted restlessly in their egg sacks as if they could understand him.
Soundwave's hand went limp, and he hissed his frustration and pain. Starscream had nearly severed his wrist through; between that and his gutted abdomen, the fight was lost. Prolonging the inevitable would only provoke the insane flyer to kill him instead of perhaps letting him crawl away to a medic after surrendering.
"Yield." His voice sizzled through the gloom, full of static and futile rage. "Soundwave: surrenders."
More fluids gushed out of the broken joint to slick the floor. His fluids pumped out onto the eggs, and Starscream hissed fury at the taint.
Reality skewed to the left as Soundwave analyzed the sound. It wasn't one of insanity. He knew insanity. One couldn't comb through millennia of war information without recognizing insanity.
That was possessiveness.
The eggs were unidentifiable as one carrier's or another's once they were fertilized. The Fallen had taken the Decepticons capable of spark generation and implanted them with tiny fragments of his ancient Primacy, glittering descendant offshoots of the AllSpark. Their sparks had responded by spawning. It had been a bizarre, even alarming method of reproduction that none of the Decepticons had known about prior to the Fallen calling for the carrier mechs.
Those who'd hosted the tiny budding bits of light and life had found their sparks accepting the Fallen's implantation. They'd generated new life. Some had been repulsed by the process, some only exhausted and irritated by the labor as their bodies provided for the newsparks' development. One or two had been fascinated.
Regardless of their feelings on the matter, each carrier obeyed the Fallen's command, because no Decepticon who'd survived this long was going to be stupid enough to defy him. They'd seeded the egg sacks with the teensy sparks when he decreed and suffered the implantation process to start carrying again. The hatchery filled, one newspark at a time.
That should have been the end of it. The newsparks gradually assembled raw materials filtered out of the nutrient fluid in the egg sacks, gleaning flecks of metal and energon like the forging process magnetized them. Up until the hatchlings unfurled their tight balls of rough metal into limbs and functioning joints, they weren't recognizable as young Cybertronians, much less as descended from any particular carrier. The carriers shouldn't have been able to identify which eggs they'd fertilized, so feeling a connection to the eggs should have been ludicrous.
So no one had said anything alluding to that when Starscream took over the hatchery. He turned it into his own personal domain, strictly limiting contact with anyone but the Fallen, but the Decepticons whispering about it in the halls decided that made a kind of sense. The newsparks were supposed to be the next generation. The Fallen ruled the ship and spoke about Megatron as if he were still alive, but Starscream would seize whatever power was offered. Or anywhere he could steal it. Controlling the next generation's development granted future influence over the mechs.
Soundwave had thought it that simple. Now he didn't. The Air Commander clawed more of his internal parts out of his frame, infuriated that he had dared touch the hatchlings by even a spray of fluids, and insanity wasn't the answer. A connection to the hatchlings no longer seemed ludicrous, not while Starscream tore into him a second time for the sin of bleeding on the blasted things.
This was instinctive rage. This was protective anger.
Soundwave re-evaluated the situation as pain strung his mind out like the tubing spilling down his legs in long loops.
"Commander!" Flattery. Starscream was the acting commander of the Nemesis, only technically his superior officer. At this moment, Soundwave would call him Lord and mean it. "Take care, Commander, or you will damage the hatchlings with my frame."
It took effort to keep his voice level, but it came out a mild reproof. The warning cut through the violence better than a shout would have. It caught Starscream's attention.
The flyer stilled. His talons flexed in the holes punched through Soundwave's thin plating, feet restlessly shifting him from side to side on the larger mech's back as his claws kneaded the larger mech's broken wrist joint.
Soundwave stifled a hoarse yell at the stabbing streaks of pain going up his forearm. His gutted abdomen continued to seep vital fluids, but he stayed as motionless as the pain let him. It seemed like a bad idea to provoke the possessive code of a mech evidently Pit-bent on protecting his…offspring.
Offspring. Newsparks, eggs, and hatchlings. Foreign terminology for a repulsively organic method of procreation. Soundwave reset his optical system and stared at the transparent egg sacks in front of his face. Which newsparks had been carried by Starscream? Did the flyer even know? Could anyone tell? The whole lot of them were barely living as of yet, alive at the core but still forming bodies around themselves. They registered as skittering flecks of data across the periphery of his sensors. Their energy fields were thin skins over rough metal.
The energy tasted like the Fallen to his sensors.
A pale reflection of Starscream's possessive fury curled through Soundwave's spark like smoke from his kindled temper.
The carriers had generated newsparks via implantation by the Fallen. He hadn't really known about the process, or what it would entail. The mission to find the Star Harvester and revive Megatron had kept Soundwave away from the Nemesis for long periods of time. The hatchery had been just set up the last time he'd been onboard, and the Fallen's plan had inspired nothing but indifference in him. Perhaps some gratitude, that Starscream would be kept occupied. His own frametype and spark couldn't carry, but Starscream's could.
By the time Soundwave returned, Starscream was firmly entrenched in brooding the eggs. To his disgruntled surprise, the communications specialist had found that he was barred from the room. While he could hack the hatchery's lock open, the fact that he had to meant that Starscream had used locking codes his own command codes couldn't override. That was intentional. That meant the doors were specifically locked against him.
Starscream considered him powerful in arms and information, a worthy successor and ally. He also considered him a threat to these little Pitspawn, it seemed.
A threat Soundwave would have made real if he'd known how the things reeked of the Fallen. Starscream had been taken by the ancient Prime, and these hatchlings were the result. He did not like the implications of that at all.
Objectively, he'd known the implantation process was intimate. He hadn't fully realized what that meant until he was face-to-egg with the hatchlings. He'd been replaced. The Fallen had taken Starscream's spark for his own purposes. Starscream had bowed to the Fallen to the point that he regarded anyone outside the hatchery as an enemy. His will, body and mind bent to protecting the newsparks.
The flyer had been taken from Soundwave, used and changed to the Fallen's specifications. These things were evidence of his infidelity. Proof of submission the Air Commander had never even offered to Megatron. Living beings that awakened protective coding so dormant that it was unnatural for a mech to have it.
It revolted Soundwave. This was sick and wrong, a perversion of the natural order! All of this: the Fallen, Starscream's submission, the newsparks. Bitter loathing welled up in his mind like the fuel creeping up the back of his throat.
He shifted once in Starscream's grasp and froze at the high-pitched whine of hydraulics engaging. Claws and talons alike tightened around his plating as hands and feet shifted for a better grip. Metal crumpled slightly. The pinned mech relaxed a bolt at a time, broadcasting surrender through his body until Starscream went back to growling against his neck. The flyer didn't quite seem to know what to do with him without damaging the hatchlings.
A frustrated grating screech of grinding gears came from deep within Soundwave's chassis as he waited for a decision. He was unable to anything more. He glared at the egg sacks directly in front of his visor, hating them and everything they stood for. Starscream belonged to the Fallen, not to him, and these were the result.
They dripped his fuel, mocking him. The liquid didn't so much as stain them. It slid from the egg sacks, and the Fallen's energy signature assaulted Soundwave's sensors again. He took it as a personal insult.
Affronts to nature or not, he wouldn't hate them so much if they didn't reek of the Fallen's total dominion over Starscream. Even covering them with his internal fluids hadn't been enough to mark them as Soundwave's instead. That would have been at least marginally better than swallowing down submission to the Fallen's will. If he could somehow make these accursed things his instead of the Fallen's - but he couldn't.
The Fallen had created the hatchery, spawned the eggs inside it, and crafted a single-minded guardian out of the Air Commander. What did that leave Soundwave?
He was Starscream's sole lover, had been for most of the war, and yes, he had made certain he alone interfaced with the flyer. He watched Starscream closely for the sake of his absent leader, but also because he would not be upstaged by whatever conniving Decepticon thought to curry favor via a berth. The few idiots who'd tried hitting on his lover had found their ends soon afterward.
The flyer was his.
His vicious possessiveness had always amused Starscream. Loyalty to him as a lover instead of as a leader was still loyalty of a sort. He'd found that more than acceptable.
But now Soundwave was spurned for egg sacks and an ancient Prime. All of his lover's attention centered on the hatchery and the newsparks, and the whole situation stung his sensors with the Fallen's supremacy. Starscream would interface with him, work side-by-side under Megatron with him, command him as a soldier, yet didn't trust him around newsparks that belonged to someone else.
Smart mech. Soundwave snarled silently at the eggs.
"Why are you here?" Starscream demanded suddenly. "State your purpose. What do you have to tell me that could not have been sent in a data packet?" His hands found better holds and dug clawtips in to rake over the nerve sensors hidden under Soundwave's thin armor. The hands of a lover could be efficient weapons of pain when used to punish. Soundwave's vocalizer clicked in agony as sharp claws abused sensors they'd often caressed.
There was only one solution to this problem, only one thing Soundwave could claim that the Fallen hadn't already taken.
He pressed into the claws maiming him and lowered his voice until the static purred in the voice of a mech driven mad by desire. "Must you ask, Commander? I would think it obvious."
At his waist and the sides of his hips, a dozen ports abruptly flipped open. Thin crackles of charge already dribbled from their open mouths. Some had been torn free by Starscream's talons, but they sparked fitfully where they hung loose. Beneath the long loops of leaking internal tubing, his pelvic span transformed as his interface array came online. The solid front plating folded out, the equipment structure behind it pushing out as the wiring underneath winched taut. The circular bracer ring snapped into place as concealed data transfer cables uncoiled from their redundant support positions secured around his hip joints. They snaked out between parted plating, writhing through the bracer ring as strong magnets pulled the thread-thin data cables forward.
The surging throb of magnets over sensitive circuitry sent waves of arousal across his nervous system. Power conduits clicked free of his sensor network when the charge reached a tripping point, and bundles of wires squirmed out, drawn by the magnets out through the bracer ring until cables and wires formed a heavy skein that zapped white flickers of electric charge up and down their lengths. The ring's magnets powered down as the slight tug of magnetic plugs began. They called their matching prongs to slot in, forming thicker cords twined from power conduits, sensor circuitry wire, and data cables.
The electric scent of ozone rose around Soundwave's frame as he arched back into Starscream's hands and moaned a static-ridden note he didn't even have to fake. "Commander…" The coiling mass that had been his pelvic span clicked into place one chirping ready-light after another, spitting charge as his body heated. His interface array writhed together through the leaking tubes and parts of his gutted waist, cords wrapping about themselves to form a twisted pillar tipped by twitching jacks and multi-pinned connectors.
He moaned again as clawed hands raked down his sides to hover over the open ports right under his chest. "Yes," he hissed. "Now, Starscream. Take me now."
His feet spread apart to brace him for the first scalding rush of charge, and he smirked grimly at the egg sacks in front of him. The Fallen had Starscream's submission, but Soundwave? He would have Starscream's dominance. If he could not own the flyer, then the flyer would own him.
The mere idea sent his array questing, connection pins seeking out receptive ports impatiently. His interface equipment was charged and ready, excited for a rough frag. Heat and charge cycled through it, transferred back and forth through the braided structure but contained by the bracing ring. Twice the size of the others, the main cable finally emerged from its sheath to worm through the center of the pulsing mass like a hot, liquid conduit straight into Soundwave's mainframe. His electromagnetic field throbbed in time with its cycling, and Soundwave dropped his head as connector pins nosed into place along the thick length. It slaved the other transfer cables to its much larger jack, and his torn abdomen gushed more fluids as he jerked in reaction when the bracer ring tightened, forcing the woven cords together.
Set back and under the cable array, between his legs, a separate structure pinged completion as the last socket components snapped into place. His jack tip rubbed against the pliable surface of an egg, transmitting the sensation up braided wire-cable-conduit cords before feeding right back into the thick main cable. The soft pressure went straight into the achingly empty socket behind it.
A socket whose edges expanded in anticipation when Starscream's weight shifted. Soundwave tilted his aft up, uncaring of the fresh spill of internal fluids that spattered to the floor. All he needed was Starscream's cords twisting up against him, around him, filling his ports however he wished because the communication mech had thrown himself wide open to whatever -
Ah?
"I will take you when I wish and not an instant sooner," the Air Commander said, his distinctive raspy vocalizer smoothing the words through it like shibari rope through experienced hands. The claws that had been tracing delicately around crackling ports withdrew, trailing gleaming charge for a moment before it evaporated in white bolts of light.
Soundwave groaned, then grunted in surprise as Starscream's arms embraced him from behind. What could have been a lover's gesture turned into an attack as both hands dug into his opened gut with a savagery normally reserved for the battlefield. Before he could scream, handfuls of tubing were ripped free in one brutal yank.
"Perhaps later."
The larger Decepticon went down in a massive clatter that shook the entire hatchery. Damage reports and error warnings blared across his vision, but the pain burnt through him front-to-back in a pulling drain that stretched up into his chest and pulled at the base of his interface equipment. Literally pulled, since Starscream still held the dripping handfuls of internal parts as he stood above Soundwave. When he backed away, Soundwave could feel fuel processors shut down, his generator seize, and gaskets burst as hoses snapped.
"Commander, stop!"
"Perhaps now," Starscream said, reversing his stride. He knelt by the downed mech as if nothing had happened.
Soundwave looked into his optics and muted a garbled plea before it could escape. He had been this Decepticon's lover for a long, long time. He knew that look. "As you command," he wheezed instead, spitting oil. Leaking reservoirs had flooded his throat.
Despite the damage - maybe even because of it, because it came from Starscream's hands and as long as they were covered in his fluids they were his - he pushed against the floor. His arms shook but held, wrist flaming agony. Soundwave lifted his aft and parted his knees, sliding them through puddles of his own fluids.
The glaring red read-out tracking his fuel levels dropped as warm liquid ran down his chest and legs in response. His exposed socket irised further open between his thighs, anyway. The ports deep inside dribbled charge and flexed their rim latchkeys in eager anticipation of being plugged. Building arousal sang need down his wires, overwriting pain with sheer lust for the connector tips slipping out from behind Starscream's pelvic armor. Soundwave saw them weaving together when he glanced back, and his ventilation system gurgled protest as it fought how his temperature spiked.
Yes. Yes, mount him. Take him like this, on all fours beneath the flyer's shorter frame. Cover him with the shadow of those wide wings and the swamping lust of his domineering EM field. Plug his every port and overwhelm him with an onslaught of electric heat and charge.
The Fallen would never have Starscream this way. He would never scream helplessly against the floor as writhing cords worked slowly inside his socket and whipped against his receptor ports in teasing spanks. They wouldn't connect until he surrendered control and begged, and the ancient Prime would never do that. He would never shiver between pain and pleasure as Starscream's main jack slid slow and excruciating around his empty port, feather-light pressure blasting his interface array with a torrent of transmitted charge even though only the tip touched the rim. His deepest ports would never dribble embarrassing blurbs of electricity as connector pins split off from Starscream's cords to torment them like the many mouths of a hydra licking him out from the inside.
The Fallen would never allow himself to be bound by his own internal parts, much less welcome the restraints: soft tubing twisted around broken wrist joints and snapped cabled repurposed to leash his neck to the nearest egg rack so he couldn't look away. He'd never shriek pleas as his interface array was pried apart, cords pulled loose from their bracer ring and forced back on themselves to plug into his own receptor ports. The charge redoubled immediately, and Soundwave shrieked in blissful pain as it shocked him again and again. The main cable's insulation sheath cracked as Starscream bent it, carelessly pulling prong tips out of its length and smacking the cords away while Soundwave panted and shook. The larger mech, now tied on his hands and knees, keened agony as Starscream brought the thick cable up and around in a sadistic knot that just fed his rampant charge back in on itself.
"Starscream! Mercy!" The words came out incoherent, but his pleading tone transmitted loud and clear. If that weren't enough, he ground back into the twisted cords bulging from his socket, flaring his energy field as open as he could splay it.
He begged, but he begged for more. Take him. Take him, for AllSpark's sake!
Starscream wasn't done with him, however. Not yet. Smirking, he sank his claws deep into the wide planes of Soundwave's altmode paneling and peeled them apart. Soundwave's overtaxed, damaged fans howled even as the wounded mech screeched, but the flyer ignored it to slit open the sheaths hidden underneath in the shoulder mechanisms. "Oh, what's this, then?"
Soundwave bucked once. Starscream crouched just enough to put his powerful knee joints into the thrust of his hips, and Soundwave spat static as his ports were shocked by the fleeting contact of multiple connector tips hitting their rims over and over again until the larger mech meekly lowered his chest to the floor and stopped resisting. Two more thrusts punished him for the rebellion, turning pleasure to pain and pain to pleasure until the charge glistened in translucent, evaporating smears around the rim of his straining socket. Deep inside him, Soundwave's wanton ports gaped, hungry for a connection they'd only get when Starscream was good and ready to jack in.
When he was satisfied Soundwave understood his place - and Soundwave thoroughly did, needy and savoring what he and he alone would suffer under his lover - Starscream resumed pulling out the tentacles tucked away in the mech's altmode. They were hacking cables, meant for data absorption from the Earth networks. As soon as Soundwave scanned a different altmode, he'd lose them.
Well, they'd obviously just have to play with them while they were here to be played with.
Soundwave whined thinly as claws pinched the sensitive tips. As reward or punishment, Starscream's leaned forward over his back and gave another violent thrust, forcing another three cords squirming into his straining socket. Soundwave cried out as the pain zinged closer to ecstasy. He couldn't keep the two separate anymore, and it felt unbelievable. High-powered charge cycled out through his main cable, surging through the knot and zapping into his own ports. It was a cyclical torture that brought him achingly close to the edge in a burning build that wouldn't bubble over. Electric charge pooled deep in his socket, trapped and unable to leak past the tight bundle of cables and wires caressing his port rims. The main jack dipped into a receptor port for an occasional shallow thrust that left him needing so much more.
Fingers slid under his chin from behind right as Starscream gave one tentacle tip a strong suck. Soundwave's vocalizer fizzled, and he could only blearily stare at the egg in his face.
"These are mine," Starscream said at his back, and Soundwave only realized the choked protest came from his throat when it earned him a sharp bite. He screeched, and Starscream licked the bitemarks before repeating. "These are mine. Not the Fallen's. Mine."
Soundwave had enough processor power left to snarl at the slagging thing. It stank of the Fallen's energy. Nothing of it felt like Starscream, he himself had no part in its creation or nurturing, and he hated it because of that.
Starscream nibbled down the length of one tentacle. He dropped it to pull the other free and give it the same treatment. The snarl became a weak whimper, and Soundwave's glare at the egg became a squinting, desperate expression of conflicted pleasure. No. He would not accept this! He would reclaim Starscream from the Fallen, not accept that these were anything but a travesty of the natural order of the universe! To accept these as Starscream's meant accepting that Starscream had been subsumed by the Fallen, indistinguishable and an extension of him. In that acceptance, he would lose the flyer to the ancient Prime despite everything he'd done to take him back.
"These are mine," Starscream said again, mouth moving against the tentacle tip. "Say it."
Binary swore furious denial at him.
A long, hot breath over a wet patch, and metal glided through the narrow pivot point of the segmented tip. Soundwave faltered.
"Mine." A nip, and the larger mech jumped. A moan fought out of his abused throat, and Starscream chuckled. "You're mine, too. Mine," his fingers balanced Soundwave's chin, pushing his face into the soft skin of the egg sack, "and mine. You belong to me. You do as I say, and I say they are mine."
That jack circled and nosed into a receptor port deep inside him, probing in shallow thrusts, and Soundwave shuddered. His latchkeys spread wide, eager to snug home at its base, but it withdrew. A dozen other connector tips spanked at port rims, and his shudder became a continuous shiver of little jerking movements as his hips danced in time to the sparking zaps of charge. He moaned quietly in hopeless hate.
That was one thing most Decepticons forgot about Starscream. He outranked Soundwave because he beat the communication mech at power games in the end.
Starscream slipped the tentacle tip into his mouth, and his tongue slicked over it.
Soundwave lost.
[* * * * *]