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Published:
2025-10-07
Updated:
2025-10-16
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9/?
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Bound by Design

Summary:

Shockwave brings Megatron a theory so extreme it borders on heresy: that sparks can be forced into compatibility, and that a single Cybertronian can sustain multiple sparkbonds. If proven true, it could give the Decepticon cause an endless army born not of forges, but of nature bent to their will.

Megatron grants his scientist free rein. The test subjects? His Second-in-Command and the Decepticons’ most formidable soldiers. What follows is a cold, calculated descent into controlled chaos — where bonds are forged not through choice, but through design. The line between science and violation blurs, and the results threaten to unravel far more than Shockwave anticipated.

-New players had arrived-

Spicy level: Extra Hot

Chapter Text

The laboratory had been silent for hours. The kind of silence that presses against the walls, seeping into the very metal. Shockwave stood alone among his instruments — towers of humming generators, vials of viscous green fluids, and a dozen monitors all streaming endless calculations. The glow of the monitors reflected off his single optic, making it burn like a cruel, unwavering star in the darkness.

For centuries, Cybertronian science had insisted on a single immutable law: a spark could bond only once, choosing one counterpart in all existence. Shockwave had never accepted that.

His theory — dismissed by many as madness, or worse, heresy — was simple in principle, devastating in implication. Sparks were energy. Energy could be divided. If the correct chemical and resonance conditions were applied, there was no theoretical limit to the number of bonds a spark could sustain.

And Starscream’s spark… was the key.

The tricolor Seeker’s mutant spark signature had been catalogued the day he joined the Decepticons. Shockwave had known then that, if the day came when he could secure permission to act, Starscream would be the ideal subject. For vorns he had gathered data in silence, analyzing the Seeker’s medical scans, dissecting copies of his spark resonance, building a formula capable of forcibly unlocking that “hidden potential.”

The result floated within a narrow cylindrical vial on the workbench before him: a clear, luminous green liquid that pulsed faintly, as though it were alive.

He transferred the data, formula, and theoretical projections to his datapad. Each calculation was exact. Each prediction supported the next. By the time he finished, the file was as pristine and cold as his logic. It was time.

The throne room of the Nemesis was cavernous — a cathedral of steel and shadow. Thick pillars lined the walls like sentinels. The air was heavy with engine fumes and the faint hiss of circulating energon pipes. At the far end, beneath the sharpened Decepticon sigil, Megatron sat upon his throne.

The Warlord’s expression was carved from iron. One arm rested upon the throne’s armrest like a weapon ready to strike. The other gripped the edge, claws digging faint scratches into the metal.

To his right stood Soundwave — silent, motionless, visor reflecting the dim light like a mirror. Every sound, every frequency, every flicker of movement was undoubtedly being recorded.

To the left, towering and disciplined, Tarn stood like a devoted hound, hands folded behind his back, the DJD mask gleaming faintly. His presence was both reverent and lethal; the kind of loyalty that could crush anything Megatron pointed at.

When the massive door opened with a grinding hiss and Shockwave entered, the three pairs of attention — one visible, two hidden — turned toward him.

“Shockwave,” Megatron rumbled. His voice carried across the room like the low growl of tectonic plates shifting. “You claim to have something… worthy of my time.”

Shockwave approached the foot of the throne, stopping precisely at the required distance. His single optic narrowed slightly.
“I do, Lord Megatron. A theory, now proven viable through extensive calculation and controlled trials. One that could reshape the future of the Decepticon army.”

Tarn tilted his helm slightly, intrigued. Soundwave made no movement, but a faint pulse passed across his visor — recording.

Megatron leaned forward just enough to signal interest. “Explain.”

Shockwave activated the datapad, projecting a clean green holographic display between them. Lines of data scrolled vertically, intersecting with schematics of Cybertronian spark signatures. In the center, a holographic spark pulsed — then split into two, both remaining active.

“For millennia,” Shockwave began, his voice clinical, detached, “our kind has believed that a Cybertronian can form only one sparkbond in its lifetime. This belief is based on cultural precedent, not on empirical evidence. My research indicates that certain unique sparks contain the necessary mutational variance to sustain multiple bonds simultaneously. Under proper chemical and resonance stimulation, compatibility can be forced even between sparks previously deemed non-compliant.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed with predatory interest. “Forced.”

“Yes.” Shockwave turned another page of data. “Not naturally occurring, but induced. The implications are substantial: bonds could be used to stabilize soldiers, create unbreakable units, or even breed naturally generated soldiers under controlled conditions. With the right subjects, Decepticon ranks could grow exponentially without reliance on forges or unpredictable protoform manufacturing.”

Tarn exhaled a low, dark chuckle beneath his mask. “An army bound by their sparks… loyal not by choice, but by design.”

Megatron’s claws flexed against the throne. “And your proof?”

Shockwave rotated the projection to display the green vial. “The stimulant formula is complete. Preliminary resonance tests on controlled samples have yielded a one hundred percent bond initiation rate between incompatible sparks. There is only one final step: live experimentation.”

The silence that followed was razor-sharp. Then Megatron’s smile — cold, thin, dangerous — began to form.

“And who,” he asked slowly, “is to be our subject?”

Shockwave did not hesitate. “Starscream.”

Tarn’s mask tilted slightly. Soundwave’s visor pulsed once. Megatron’s expression shifted — amusement, calculation, a predator scenting fresh prey.

“Starscream,” Megatron repeated. “A fascinating choice. His spark is… unusual.”

“Precisely,” Shockwave said. “His mutational variance is ideal for the first trial. If successful, the process can be replicated on others with similar deviations — and eventually… on all.”

Megatron rose from the throne in one fluid, terrifying motion. His shadow fell over the scientist. “You have my permission, Shockwave. Proceed. I expect results.”

Shockwave inclined his helm. “As you command, Lord Megatron.”

Megatron’s talons clicked slowly against the metal of his throne. A sound like distant gunfire, measured and sharp. His optics narrowed into slits of molten red.

“You have my permission to proceed,” he said at last. “But I want to know… how.”

Shockwave did not hesitate. With a precise movement, he reached into his subspace compartment and withdrew a small, gleaming instrument: an autoinjector with a long, slender needle, polished and sharp enough to glint beneath the dim light of the throne room. He held it between two clawed fingers as though presenting evidence in a trial.

“This,” he stated, “is the delivery device for the compound I have engineered.”

The vial within the injector contained a faintly glowing green fluid—the same luminous formula he had shown before. In the dark, it pulsed like a living spark.

“The subject—Starscream—will require daily injections for twenty planetary cycles,” Shockwave continued, voice as steady and dispassionate as a machine. “The compound will gradually alter his spark resonance patterns, as well as induce systemic physiological changes. These changes will prepare his body and spark to accept multiple concurrent sparkbonds without catastrophic rejection.”

Tarn tilted his helm slightly, the faint sound of metal scraping behind his mask. “Twenty days,” he mused. “And what else?”

Shockwave turned the injector slowly in his hand, the way a surgeon might handle a scalpel. “The procedure requires sustained, controlled proximity between Starscream and the selected bond subject during the entire twenty-cycle process. The subject must remain close enough for their spark resonance to consistently interact with his, particularly at his delo point. This will train Starscream’s systems to recognize the foreign resonance as compatible.”

Soundwave’s visor pulsed faintly, logging everything.

Megatron leaned forward on his throne, elbows resting on his knees like a beast crouching. “And if this… proximity is interrupted?”

Shockwave’s optic gleamed. “Rejection is likely. The spark may revert to its natural defense state and repel the foreign resonance. The longer the separation, the higher the risk of failure.”

The words hung in the air like cold blades.

Shockwave continued, “There are methods to accelerate the process. Prolonged physical contact, direct spark resonance exposure, and extended periods of shared proximity can shorten the adaptation time. However, the subject and the chosen partner must not be separated for more than minimal intervals during the treatment period. Stability is essential.”

Megatron’s expression shifted to one of calculating amusement. He looked first to his right, at Soundwave, then to his left, at Tarn. Both were silent. The tension was thick enough to cut through.

Shockwave tilted his helm as if asking a simple, routine question.
“Which of you will be the first subject?”

The question landed with a weight that would have crushed most mechs. But Shockwave delivered it like it was the most ordinary thing in the world—because to him, it was. A variable to be assigned. A line in a formula.

“The three of you represent optimal compatibility for the experiment,” Shockwave added, his tone chillingly factual. “Your spark strength, structural resilience, and influence on Starscream’s behavior make each of you a prime candidate.”

Megatron’s optics gleamed. Tarn’s fingers flexed behind his back, restrained but eager. Soundwave was unreadable, a void behind the visor.

Then Shockwave paused, his optic narrowing fractionally as he added, almost casually:
“There is one further piece of data you may find relevant. Starscream remains sealed. He has never undergone an interface. His spark and systems are… uninitiated.”

The silence that followed was colder than the void outside the ship.

Tarn’s mask tilted down slowly, like a predator assessing new prey. Megatron straightened on his throne, an expression somewhere between intrigue and cruel satisfaction forming on his face. Even Soundwave’s visor gave off a brief, sharp pulse—an uncharacteristic flicker of reaction.

“A blank canvas,” Megatron murmured, his voice dark and soft. “Untouched. How very… useful.”

Shockwave inclined his head, utterly unbothered by the implications. “His lack of prior bonding or interfacing increases the likelihood of successful spark adaptation. There are no residual resonance patterns to interfere with the process. He is, effectively, ideal for controlled conditioning.”

Megatron exhaled a low, dangerous laugh. It echoed through the throne room, reverberating off the steel walls like a war drum.

“Very well, Shockwave,” he said finally. “You will begin preparations immediately. I will decide which of us will be the first… participant.”

Shockwave bowed his head slightly. “As you command, Lord Megatron.”

The Decepticon leader rose to his full height, looming like a storm. “Do not fail me. This experiment may alter the future of our entire cause. Starscream will serve a greater purpose than his ambition ever allowed him to imagine.”

Shockwave turned, the injector disappearing back into subspace with a hiss. As the doors slid open before him, the last sound he heard was Megatron’s low, rumbling chuckle—a sound that carried the promise of control, and the weight of a fate already sealed.

Shockwave’s footsteps echoed through the dim corridors of the Nemesis, a measured, metallic rhythm that belonged to no living creature. His meeting with Megatron had gone exactly as calculated. Approval had been secured; now came execution.

The door to his laboratory sealed behind him with a hiss. Inside, the familiar sterile hum greeted him — generators thrumming, datapads blinking, distant instruments cycling through automated diagnostics.

But at the far end of the lab, partitioned by reinforced glass and a heavy, automated door, lay something new.

Shockwave approached the secured section, entering a command code with one hand while the other accessed a data panel from subspace. The door slid open with a whisper of pressurized air.

The room beyond looked nothing like the rest of his laboratory. Where the outer space was all sharp lines, cold metal, and the smell of chemicals, this chamber had been designed with unnerving care.

The floor gleamed. The walls were smooth, sterile white, embedded with subtle illumination strips that cast a soft glow. A wide viewport stretched across one wall, revealing the endless starfield outside—a silent, cosmic ocean.

In one corner stood a large berth—custom-built, with a thick, soft mattress layered in dark, clean fabric. The edges were rounded, almost gentle, and beside it lay several large pillows arranged deliberately, as though someone had studied a home and replicated it from memory. The temperature of the chamber was warm, perfectly calibrated to seeker preference according to Shockwave’s long-collected data.

He stepped further inside, scanning each section with detached precision. A private washrack had been installed against the far wall, fully functional, with adjustable temperature controls capable of producing hot water.

Nearby, a small table stood stocked with sealed energon cubes—each one carefully infused to ensure sustained energy levels and regulate Spark output during the adaptation process.

And everywhere—small, almost invisible surveillance units were mounted in corners, under fixtures, inside the viewport frame. Tiny black lenses that would never blink.

This was not a sanctuary. It was a controlled habitat. A gilded cage.

Shockwave moved methodically, testing each hidden camera’s feed through his wrist console. One by one, they came online, transmitting pristine visual and audio data to his primary systems.

“Recording capacity: optimal,” he muttered to himself. “Sensory nodes: functional. No blind spots detected.”

A trio of drone units rolled silently into the chamber—sleek, low to the ground, with their frames painted a neutral gray. Each was programmed for maintenance: to clean the chamber daily, restock energon, adjust environmental settings, and remain unseen while doing so. They dispersed like insects, vanishing into wall ports and hidden slots.

The room’s design served a singular purpose. The subjects—Starscream and whichever candidate Megatron chose—would live here for twenty cycles. Every interaction, every reaction, every shift in spark resonance would be catalogued and studied.

Shockwave surveyed the berth again. His optic narrowed, not out of sentiment but calculation.

“Seekers respond favorably to comfort environments,” he said aloud to his datapad. “Stress interference must be minimized for accurate resonance data. Psychological resistance is irrelevant; physiological compliance is paramount.”

His clawed hand brushed over the surface of the table, leaving a faint scratch on the metal. Then he turned back toward the door, optic burning faintly in the dim light.

Everything was ready.

All he needed now was Megatron’s decision. Tarn, Soundwave, or Megatron himself—whichever was chosen, the experiment would begin.

And in this carefully constructed chamber, every moment would be watched, measured, and stored.

The chamber looked almost inviting. That was the point.

It was built not for comfort, but for control.

The throne room had grown silent again after Shockwave’s departure. Only the distant hum of the Nemesis’s engines filled the air, vibrating through the floorplates like a heartbeat.

Megatron sat back on his throne, the claws of one hand drumming against the metal armrest in a slow, steady rhythm. His optics swept between Tarn and Soundwave — two predators standing in quiet deference, each capable of destruction in their own way.

“Well,” Megatron rumbled, his voice low and cold. “Which of us shall be the first?”

The question hung heavy in the air, not as an invitation, but as a test.

Tarn was the first to step forward, chin slightly raised, hands still clasped behind his back in soldierly discipline. His mask reflected the throne room’s dim light.

“With your permission, Lord Megatron,” Tarn began, voice deep and measured, “I must speak plainly. I do not trust Shockwave.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed—not in offense, but interest.

Tarn continued. “His theories are… dangerous. Even by our standards. If his calculations are wrong, if the experiment destabilizes a spark—your spark—it could place you in jeopardy. I would not risk that. You are our Warlord. I will not see your spark subjected to the whims of a scientist’s madness.”

The words came out like sharpened metal, every syllable dripping with unwavering loyalty.

For a moment, only the hum of the ship filled the silence again. Then, surprisingly, Soundwave moved.

The spymaster tilted his helm slightly, the screen of his visor flickering with faint light. His voice, filtered and calm, broke the air:

“Agreement: Tarn.”

The rare alignment between the two was enough to make Megatron’s optic ridge twitch upward slightly.

Soundwave continued, “Recommendation: Soundwave—first candidate.” His visor flared briefly, a pulse of data. “Rationale: Analysis speed—optimal. Detection: anomalies / failures—instant. Catastrophe—preventable.”

It was logical. Cold. Efficient.

Soundwave was the Decepticons’ silent mind. He could read micro-fluctuations, detect deception, and process incoming data in real time. If Shockwave’s theory contained flaws, Soundwave would find them before anyone else even registered danger.

Megatron gave a low, thoughtful growl. He hadn’t expected the two to agree. That alone said much.

Tarn inclined his helm. “Soundwave’s precision would indeed expose any threat to you, my lord. If the experiment fails, it is better it fails on him than on you.”

The words were practical, not cruel. That was what made them more chilling.

Megatron shifted his weight, the metal of the throne creaking faintly beneath his frame. He looked at Soundwave, holding his gaze for a long, heavy moment.

“Very well,” Megatron said at last, each word deliberate. “You will be the first.”

Soundwave inclined his helm in silent acknowledgment. No hesitation. No fear.

Megatron rose from his throne, his towering frame casting shadows over the other two. “You will report to Shockwave’s laboratory immediately. Begin preparations for the twenty-cycle procedure. And Soundwave…”

He stepped closer. His voice dropped into something quieter, far more dangerous.

“This is not a request,” Megatron said, optics flaring faintly. “You will send me daily reports. Images. Data. Every detail. I will see everything.”

Soundwave’s visor pulsed once in acknowledgment. “Affirmative.”

Tarn lowered his head, a gesture of obedience and respect.

Satisfied, Megatron turned, his cape of metal plating shifting with the motion. “Then it is decided. Tarn, you will oversee the DJD’s assignments during this… experiment. Soundwave, go. Do not keep Shockwave waiting. I expect results.”

The throne room doors opened with a hydraulic hiss. Soundwave stepped through without a sound, disappearing down the corridor toward the laboratories.

Megatron returned to his throne, sitting with the weight of someone who already considered the outcome inevitable. His claws resumed their rhythmic tapping.

The game had begun.

The lab door slid open with its usual hydraulic hiss, and the sterile hum of Shockwave’s equipment filled the air. Soundwave entered first, silent and precise, his visor flickering faintly as he scanned the room. Shockwave followed behind, sealing the door after them with a few taps on the control panel.

There was no wasted motion. Shockwave moved to one of his workstations, checking the injector once more, the faint green glow inside its vial casting an eerie light across the metal surfaces.

Before Soundwave could issue even a query, the lab door opened again.

Starscream stepped in, wings angled slightly back, optics narrowed in suspicion. “Shockwave,” he said sharply, “what is this about? You summoned me here without explanation.”

Shockwave turned toward him with measured calm, gesturing with one clawed hand for the seeker to approach. “A matter requiring your immediate attention,” he said in his even, clinical tone. He bent down to one of the tables as if reaching for a datapad.

Starscream’s irritation won out over his caution; he closed the distance with long, quick steps, wings flicking with restless energy. He leaned forward slightly to see what Shockwave was doing—

—and the scientist moved with mechanical precision.

The injector flashed in the dim light, and before Starscream could react, Shockwave’s clawed hand clamped onto the side of his neck cables. The needle plunged in with a soft but unmistakable hiss.

Starscream’s optics went wide. “What—!”

The fluid was already flowing into his systems by the time he shoved Shockwave back. It burned cold at first, then bloomed into a spreading heat under his plating. He staggered, wings flaring instinctively, vents kicking in hard.

Shockwave dropped the empty injector onto the table with a faint clatter. “Dosage: complete,” he said, as though he had merely flipped a switch.

Starscream turned toward him with bared dental plates. “What did you—inject—into me?!” His voice spiked in pitch, laced with fury. He took a step forward—

—and the heat surged again. His knees buckled unexpectedly. His vents roared, fighting the sudden overload in his sensory systems. The room tilted in his vision.

Soundwave moved before he fell. In two silent steps he closed the distance, catching Starscream under the arms and lifting him easily off the ground. The tricolor Seeker struggled reflexively, wings beating against the air, but his strength was rapidly draining.

Soundwave’s visor pulsed once as he adjusted his hold, silently registering how unexpectedly light Starscream was compared to most Decepticons. Small frame. Aerial type. Dangerous, yes—but physically slight. He held him like an armful of fragile, volatile machinery.

Shockwave pressed a panel on the wall. A reinforced door slid open with a smooth, ominous sound. Beyond it lay the carefully prepared chamber: the berth, the viewport, the unnervingly warm air.

“Place him inside,” Shockwave instructed.

Soundwave complied without a word, carrying the still-venting Starscream across the threshold. The Seeker’s optics darted around, confused, furious, but he was too off-balance to fight properly.

Shockwave followed them in, sealed the door behind with a code sequence, and the heavy lock engaged with a resonant thunk.

The chamber was now closed. The cameras hidden in the walls blinked online, tiny red dots flaring to life.

Starscream was inside. The procedure had begun.

Chapter Text

The world dissolved into a haze of warm plating and the low, steady thrum of an idle engine. Starscream’s frame was a furnace against Soundwave’s, his famous poise gone, replaced by a delicate tremor that ran through his wings. They lay together on the soft berth, a private sanctuary away from the Decepticons’ cold, metal hallways. His low-slung wings, usually held high in arrogant display, were dipped in a vulnerable curve, speaking of a fragility he would never admit to aloud. His ventilations came in short, sharp bursts, whispering against Soundwave’s chestplate.

Soundwave’s visor glowed, capturing every minute detail of the seeker’s state. He knew. He knew this was Starscream's first time. The knowledge was a solemn weight, a responsibility he would honor with absolute devotion. His goal was not conquest, but communion. To make the seeker feel safe, to make him unravel in pleasure, not in fear.

With a soft, hydraulic hiss that seemed deafening in the quiet room, Soundwave retracted his faceplate. The air felt cool, strange against his own derma, but Starscream’s sharp intake of breath was worth it. His red optics were wide, staring, captivated by the revelation of the mouth he’d only ever imagined.

Slowly, giving the seeker every micro-second to object, Soundwave leaned in. The first brush of his lips against Starscream’s was a question. It was chaste, soft, a mere press of warmth on warmth.

Starscream froze for a nanosecond, then a dam broke. He surged forward, his own mouth meeting Soundwave’s with a desperate, clumsy hunger. It was all teeth and pent-up longing, a silent scream of want finally given form. Soundwave let him lead, let him set the frantic pace until his systems demanded air. They separated with a gasp, a thin strand of energon-saliva connecting them for a fleeting moment.

Soundwave did not let the moment cool. He trailed his lips from the corner of Starscream’s mouth, down the elegant line of his jaw, to the sensitive cables of his neck. He kissed the intricate wiring there, feeling the frantic pulse of energy beneath his lips. A whimper, barely audible, escaped Starscream’s vocalizer. Then another. Each one was a tiny victory. Soundwave mapped the terrain with his mouth, learning the geography of the seeker’s pleasure points until he found a particularly sensitive cluster of neural cables.

He licked a long, slow stripe up the length of one.

Starscream’s back arched off the berth with a choked cry, his hands scrabbling for purchase on Soundwave’s broad back. ‘Yes… right there…’ he hissed, his voice static-laced and broken.

As his mouth worked its magic on Starscream’s neck, Soundwave’s hand began its own journey. It slid down the seeker’s side, over the sculpted abdominal plating, tracing the seam where chest met waist. Starscream shuddered, his vents hitched, but he didn’t pull away. He pressed into the touch, a silent plea for more. Soundwave’s fingers travelled lower, over the smooth plating of his thigh, then inward, toward the heart of his heat.

The seeker’s array was hot to the touch, the metal humming with charge. Soundwave’s fingertips brushed against the main seam, feeling the shiver that wracked Starscream’s entire frame. He cupped him there, a firm, warm pressure, and Starscream gasped, his spine bowing beautifully as a jolt of pure sensation overwhelmed him.

“It is… a lot,” Starscream panted, his voice barely a whisper.

Soundwave leaned close, his lips brushing the seeker’s audial. His voice, when it came, was a deep, resonant rumble, stripped of its usual mechanical filter, raw and intimate. “Everything is normal. Your response is perfect. You are perfect.”

The words sank in, a balm to the seeker’s frayed nerves. The tension in his wings eased minutely. He felt safe. “I’m so hot,” Starscream confessed, his optics shuttered tight. “I need… Soundwave, I want more.”

“Then open for me,” Soundwave murmured, the command gentle, an invitation.

A shudder, a moment of hesitation, then with a soft click and a hydraulic sigh, the seeker’s interface panel retracted.

Soundwave looked down, and his spark stuttered in its chamber. The valve revealed was a marvel. It was a soft, intricately folded bloom of translucent blue biolights, pulsing with a gentle, inner luminescence. It was sleek, elegant, and utterly, completely… empty. There was no spike housing. None at all.

Spike-free frames were a rarity, a genetic throwback that many saw as a flaw, an incompleteness. As Soundwave stared, captivated, Starscream’s earlier confidence shattered. A wave of shame washed over him. With a choked sound, he tried to squeeze his thighs together, to hide the exposed, ‘defective’ part of himself.

Soundwave was faster. In a fluid motion, he shifted down the berth, his hands firmly pressing the seeker’s thighs apart as he settled himself between them. He didn’t give Starscream a moment to protest, to retreat into his insecurities. He lowered his head, and with a reverence that stole the seeker’s breath, he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the very center of that pulsing, blue heat.

Starscream cried out, his hands flying to grip Soundwave’s shoulders. The sensation was utterly foreign, overwhelmingly intense. Soundwave didn’t devour him, not yet. He teased. He used the flat of his tongue to lick a broad, slow stripe from the entrance all the way up to the sensitive anterior node. Starscream jolted as if electrocuted. Again. Slower this time, savoring the faint, clean taste of energized silicon and the unique charge of Starscream’s biolights.

Then he focused, his tongue becoming more precise, tracing each delicate fold, learning its structure, discovering what made the seeker writhe and gasp beneath him. He circled the hardened node, once, twice, before sucking it gently into his mouth.

“Ahn! Soundwave!” The moan was ripped from Starscream’s core, loud and unreserved. His hips jerked, seeking more pressure, more friction, more everything. Soundwave held him steady, his grip firm but not restraining, as he finally, finally delved his tongue into the hot, slick entrance of Starscream’s valve.

It was like tasting lightning. The inner calipers, untried and sensitive, fluttered wildly around the intrusion, trying to grip something that wasn't there. Soundwave fucked him with his tongue, a slow, deliberate rhythm, each thrust making Starscream see stars behind his shuttered optics. The seeker’s moans became a continuous, broken symphony, his hands clutching at Soundwave’s head, his thighs trembling violently where they were splayed open.

Soundwave lost himself in the act, in the taste and the feel and the sounds of the proud, vicious seeker coming completely undone beneath his mouth. He licked and sucked as if Starscream’s valve were the most exquisite sweet, a rare delicacy he would worship for hours. The room filled with the sounds of slick moisture, hitched ventilations, and Starscream’s increasingly desperate, pleasured cries. He was building, climbing, a charge tightening in his belly, coiling to a breaking point he’d never before experienced.

“Don’t stop, please, don’t stop,” he begged, his voice a raw, shattered thing.

The sweet, fluttering convulsions around his tongue were a symphony far greater than any comms frequency. Soundwave drank deeply, savoring the unique, sugary taste of Starscream’s overload, a flavor he knew was a secret gift from the seeker’s rare spark. He didn’t stop until the last shudder had passed through the seeker’s frame, until the desperate grip of his valve calmed to a gentle, throbbing pulse.

He lifted his head, his own faceplates glistening with the pale pink fluid. Starscream was a vision beneath him: optics shuttered, chest heaving, a low, continuous whine emanating from his vocalizer. He was utterly spent, yet the heat radiating from his frame spoke of a charge that was far from dissipated.

It was not enough. It would never be enough.

With a resolve that shocked even his own calculated processes, Soundwave rose to his knees. The silent, masked figure was gone. In his place was a mech laid bare, his face open and raw with a desire so intense it was almost feral. His own array was screaming at him, the panel retracting with a sharp hiss that snapped Starscream’s optics open.

There it was. Soundwave’s spike, pressurized and proud, a stark, vibrant blue streaked with fiery yellow circuits that pulsed with his sparkbeat. It was a part of him Starscream had never seen, a part few had ever been privileged to witness. It was as formidable as the rest of him, thick and demanding, and a single, glistening bead of deep blue energon was already welling at the tip.

Starscream’s breath hitched, his earlier heat momentarily forgotten in a wave of sheer awe. A spike. He’d seen diagrams, heard lewd jokes in the officer’s mess, but the reality was… immense. And it was for him.

Hesitantly, his fingers, usually so sharp and cruel, reached out. They trembled as they made contact with the heated surface. It was so much hotter than he’d imagined, the thrum of energy beneath the plating a live wire against his touch. He wrapped his fingers around the base, the girth straining his grip, and a jolt went through him as he felt the powerful, rhythmic pulse of Soundwave’s spark deep within.

Soundwave watched him, his visor dark, his expression unreadable. He didn’t stop the exploration. Instead, he moved his own hand, not to his spike, but back to Starscream’s valve. Two of his broad fingers, still slick from his mouth, pressed against the quivering, wet entrance. Starscream gasped, his head falling back, his grip on the spike tightening reflexively.

“You are… magnificent,” Soundwave’s true voice was a low, gravelly rumble, a sound so rare and intimate it felt like a physical caress. He pressed his fingers inside, a slow, stretching intrusion that made Starscream cry out. The stretch was exquisite, filling him just enough to make him crave the emptiness to be filled completely.

Soundwave moved his other hand, cupping Starscream’s cheek and guiding his face closer. The seeker’s optics were wide, glazed with a mix of trepidation and burning curiosity. “Taste me,” Soundwave commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument, yet dripping with a dark, possessive tenderness.

The order broke a final barrier within Starscream. Any lingering shred of pride or hesitation evaporated. He was a creature of want, and he wanted this. He wanted to please, to reciprocate, to know the taste of the mech who was unraveling him so completely.

He leaned forward, his glossa flicking out to tentatively catch the bead of energon at the tip. It was rich, metallic, and uniquely Soundwave. It was the taste of raw power held in perfect check, of silent loyalty given freely. Emboldened, he opened his mouth wider, taking the tip inside.

A sharp, punched-out ventilation escaped Soundwave. The warmth of Starscream’s mouth was an electric shock to his system. He held perfectly still, his entire world narrowing to the sensation of that hot, wet mouth on him, and the tight, clenching heat of Starscream’s valve around his fingers.

Starscream began to lick, a slow, experimental glide of his tongue along the underside, mimicking what little he knew. The salty-sweet taste of transfluid and energon filled his senses. He swirled his tongue around the head, earning another deep groan from above. The sound fueled him, gave him a strange, heady sense of power. He was making the unflappable Soundwave lose his composure.

All the while, Soundwave’s fingers worked inside him, scissoring and stretching, preparing him. Each movement sent fresh waves of pleasure-pain through Starscream’s core, making him moan around the spike in his mouth. The vibrations drew a ragged curse from Soundwave, his hips giving a minute, involuntary thrust.

The sudden movement made Starscream’s optics fly open. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he sank down further, taking more of the length, his throat working to accommodate the intrusion. His own valve clenched desperately around the fingers fucking into him, a messy, overwhelming feedback loop of sensation. He was being filled, he was filling, he was hot and cold and shaking and so, so ready.

Soundwave looked down at the breathtaking sight: the proud Seeker Air Commander, on his back, wings splayed and trembling, his lips stretched around his spike, his own fingers buried deep in the seeker’s leaking, pink-tinged valve. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever witnessed.

He withdrew his fingers slowly, drawing a whimper of protest from Starscream. The seeker released his spike with a wet sound, his face a mask of confused need. “Soundwave… please…”

“Shhh,” Soundwave soothed, his voice rough with strain. He positioned himself, the blunt, wet head of his spike pressing against Starscream’s stretched, ready entrance. The heat was immense. The promise was terrifying. Starscream’s optics were locked on his, wide and trusting.

“I will go slow,” Soundwave vowed, the words a sacred pledge in the charged air between them. He began to push.

The initial pressure was immense, a stretching, burning fullness that made Starscream’s world narrow to the single point where their bodies joined. He tensed, a sharp gasp catching in his vocalizer. His elegant wings, which had been low and pliant, shot straight up, rigid with surprise and the sudden, sharp sting of invasion.

Soundwave felt it, too—the intense, clenching heat, the impossible tightness. And then, the distinct, fragile resistance. The tip of his spike met the final barrier, the undeniable proof he had craved. Starscream’s seal. A low, guttural sound, part triumph, part pure, unadulterated need, rumbled deep within his chassis.

He had promised to go slow. But the feel of that pristine tightness, the intoxicating knowledge that he was the first, the only, to ever claim the proud Seeker in this way, shattered his famed control. The primal, feral part of him, the part that valued possession above all else, surged forward.

With a single, powerful, and deliberate thrust, he broke through.

Starscream’s entire frame arched off the berth, a strangled cry ripped from his throat. It was a bright, white-hot lance of pain, and he instinctively tried to twist away. But Soundwave was bigger, heavier, an immovable weight holding him firmly in place, a cage of warm, unyielding metal. “N-no…!” Starscream whimpered, his claws scratching uselessly at Soundwave’s broad shoulders.

Soundwave stilled for a nanoklik, the roar of his own systems deafening in his audials. He saw the pain etched on Starscream’s faceplates, the way his valve fluttered and clenched around his spike in shocked, rhythmic spasms. He leaned down, his voice a gravelly whisper against the Seeker’s audio receptor. “The pain… will pass. It is temporary. Give yourself to it.”

He did not wait for a reply. He began to move.

Slowly at first, a deliberate, torturous withdrawal followed by an equally measured, deep push. The friction was exquisite, the slick, tight heat of Starscream’s valve a velvety fist milking his length. Each thrust was a controlled act of claiming, stretching the Seeker open around him, imprinting himself on Starscream’s very code.

Starscream panted, his optics offlined, his focus turned inward. The sharp, tearing pain was receding, ebbing away with each careful, penetrating slide. In its place, something else was building, a deep, coiling heat that began to spread from his core. It was the medication, yes, but it was also Soundwave—the overwhelming presence of him, the sheer physicality, the raw, unfiltered intensity of the bond they were forging.

Soundwave felt the change. The desperate, pained clenching around his spike softened, replaced by a different kind of tension, a hungry, grasping pull. He saw Starscream’s face transform; the grimace of pain melted into a dazed mask of blossoming pleasure. Encouraged, Soundwave increased his pace.

The slow, deep rolls of his hips became more urgent, more demanding. The rhythm shifted from a gentle wave to a pounding, relentless tide. Each snap of his hips was a little harder, a little faster, driving himself deeper into the Seeker’s yielding body. The sound of their coupling filled the room—the wet, slick slide of metal on sensitized mesh, the deep, rhythmic grunt from Soundwave, and the increasingly breathy, desperate sounds escaping Starscream.

Starscream was lost. The initial pain was a distant memory, utterly consumed by a pleasure so profound it was terrifying. It was a sensation he had never imagined, a full-body charge that raced along every nerve cable, setting his biolights blazing. His valve was no longer a source of vulnerability but the epicenter of a rising storm of ecstasy. He could feel every ridge of Soundwave’s spike dragging against his inner nodes on every outward stroke, then filling him to the brim on every inward plunge.

“S-Soundwave…!” he cried out, his voice a broken, staticky thing. His hands, which had been pushing weakly against the larger mech’s chest, now clutched at him, pulling him closer, demanding more. His wings, no longer rigid with pain, trembled violently with each powerful impact.

The plea was all the permission Soundwave needed. His own restraint evaporated. He drove into Starscream with a new, brutal intensity, his thrusts becoming punishing, a primal rhythm that shook the very berth. He was chasing his own peak, but more than that, he was branding the Seeker, ensuring that Starscream would never, could never, forget who had been the first to make him feel this way.

He owned this. He owned this moment, this cry, this pleasure. He was the architect of the Seeker’s unraveling.

Starscream’s world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of sensation. The weight on top of him, the brutal, perfect pace, the way his valve stretched and burned and fluttered around the massive intrusion—it was overwhelming, and it was everything. His previous encounters, his arrogant boasts, they were all meaningless noise compared to this singular, devastating reality. He was being unmade, taken apart piece by piece, and rebuilt exclusively for Soundwave’s pleasure and his own.

He was moaning openly now, a continuous, high-pitched stream of static and gasped syllables, his helm thrashing back and forth on the berth. The charge built and built, a critical mass of sensation coiling impossibly tight in his belly. He was so close, teetering on a precipice he’d never known existed.

Soundwave watched him, mesmerized by the complete surrender. He leaned down again, his voice a hot, possessive growl against Starscream’s intake. “You are mine, Starscream. Mine. You feel it. You feel me.”

The words, combined with a particularly deep, grinding thrust that seemed to touch his very spark, were Starscream’s undoing. His optics flew open, burning bright with uncontrolled energy. The coil snapped.

Starscream’s world, which had been a blissful, staticky haze of exhaustion, snapped back into sharp, overwhelming focus. The heavy weight of Soundwave on top of him shifted, but it did not retreat. Instead, the deep, rhythmic pulses of transfluid flooding his valve intensified, a seemingly endless torrent that made his already sensitive inner nodes sing with a fresh, overstimulated fire. Soundwave’s spike, still impossibly hard and thick within him, gave a final, potent throb.

He felt full. So utterly, completely full. The hot, translucent blue liquid—his overload mixed with Soundwave’s—began to seep out around the edges of their connection, dripping onto the berth with a soft, steady pat-pat-pat.

Soundwave’s massive frame shuddered once, a final tremor of his colossal overload, and for a single, fragile second, Starscream dared to believe it was over. That the beast was sated.

He was wrong.

With a guttural, static-laced groan, Soundwave withdrew. The sudden emptiness was a shock, a cold void where there had been overwhelming heat and pressure. The mixed fluids spilled out of him in a warm rush, pooling on the berthsheets beneath his trembling thighs. He gasped, optics fluttering, his entire frame going limp with spent relief.

It was short-lived.

Powerful hands gripped his waist, flipping him onto his front with an effortless, almost careless strength. Starscream’s face pressed into the damp berthcover, his sensuous wings flaring in startled reflex before being pinned down by Soundwave’s weight. Before he could even process the new position, before he could beg for a moment, a nanoklick, to recover, Soundwave was on him again.

There was no warning. No gentle guidance. Only the blunt, insistent pressure of his spike once more against Starscream’s swollen, dripping valve.

A choked cry escaped Starscream’s vocalizer as Soundwave sheathed himself inside in one deep, claiming thrust. The sensation was entirely new, entirely devastating. His valve, already stretched andSensitive, was now slicked by their combined release. The glide was obscenely smooth, a wet, filthy schlick that echoed in the quiet room, followed by another as Soundwave pulled back and thrust in again.

“Nngh! S-Soundwave—!” Starscream stammered, his voice a broken thing.

But Soundwave was beyond words. He was a creature of pure, single-minded need. His hands anchored on Starscream’s hip plates, his rhythm already building, faster and harder than before. Each powerful drive of his hips punched a gasping moan from Starscream’s lips. The wet, rhythmic sounds of their joining filled the air, a lewd soundtrack to his surrender—splish, splosh, schlick.

Starscream’s body, so overspent just moments ago, was ruthlessly dragged back to the brink. The overstimulation was agony. It was ecstasy. Every nerve ending was alight, his valve clenching and fluttering around the invader that filled him so completely, each movement rubbing his internal nodes in a way that had fresh charge crackling under his armor.

He tried to support himself on his elbows, but a particularly deep, angled thrust made his arms buckle. He collapsed onto the berth, his frame jolting with the force of Soundwave’s pace. The new angle was even more intense, driving his spike against a cluster of sensors so deep within that Starscream saw stars behind his optics. His moans pitched higher, becoming desperate, pleading things that only seemed to spur Soundwave on.

The grip on his hips tightened, surely leaving behind dents, as Soundwave’s rhythm became punishing, feral. He leaned forward, his broad chest plating pressing down on Starscream’s back, his mouth finding a sensitive cabling junction on the seeker’s neck. He didn’t kiss it. He bit down, not enough to break the metal, but with enough pressure to make Starscream’s entire world narrow to that sharp point of possession.

It was the final straw. The mix of pain and pleasure, the overwhelming fullness, the raw, animalistic hunger of the mech taking him—it crashed over him like a wave. His valve clamped down in a vice-like grip, milking Soundwave’s spike as his third overload ripped through him. It was a silent, breathless explosion, his vocalizer glitching out entirely as pure, white-hot energy surged through his circuits.

Soundwave grunted, a rough, approving sound against his neck cabling. He didn’t stop. He rode out Starscream’s convulsions, his own movements growing even more frenzied, chasing his own peak. Starscream could only lay there, gasping and trembling, completely debauched and used, as he was taken through the aftershocks.

He felt the exact moment Soundwave found his release again. The deep, internal throbbing of his spike, another hot, liquid rush that overflowed the already flooded valve, spilling out and adding to the mess beneath them. Soundwave’s entire frame locked up, a statue of pure ecstasy poised above him for a long, eternal moment before he finally, finally, stilled.

His weight slumped down, crushing Starscream into the berth once more. Both their vents were screaming, straining to cool their superheated systems. The air was thick with the scent of ozone, heated metal, and sex.

Starscream’s processor was utterly blank. There was no thought, only sensation and exhaustion so profound he felt he might never move again. He dimly registered the warm drip of fluids onto the back of his thighs.

Just as the welcome darkness of a systems crash began to creep into the edges of his vision, a low, rumbling whisper cut through the haze, hot against his audial. The voice was thick with static, saturated with a pleasure that was far from spent.

“We are… far from over...”

The words were a husky susurration, a dark promise murmured directly into his audial. Starscream’s optics flickered online. He could feel it—the hard, unyielding length of Soundwave’s spike was still buried deep within him, still fully pressurized. A fresh, sharp thrill of anticipation shot through his spent systems.

“What?” he gasped, the word barely a whisper. ”But I… I just… you can’t possibly…”

Soundwave’s large hand smoothed down his side, a gesture that was both soothing and proprietary. “Interval: insufficient. This… is too good.” His vocalizer was layered with a thickness Starscream had never heard before, a raw hunger that his previous, almost clinical control had masked. “Your valve… is a unique delicacy. My deprivation: extensive.”

Before Starscream could form another protest, Soundwave began to move again. It was a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, a deep, grinding motion that made Starscream gasp. The sensitivity was immediate and overwhelming; every tiny movement sent shimmering echoes of pleasure-pain radiating out from his overstimulated valve.

“Ah! S-Soundwave, it’s… it’s too much…”

“It is not,” Soundwave stated, his voice leaving no room for argument. He shifted his weight, pulling Starscream up and onto his knees, his own broad chest pressed against the seeker’s back, one arm wrapping around his waist to hold him firmly in place. Starscream’s wings flared, then quivered as the new angle drove Soundwave even deeper. A choked cry was muffled against the berth covers.

This was different. The first time had been about discovery, about breaking through a barrier. This was about pure, unadulterated consumption. Soundwave set a relentless, pounding rhythm, his thrusts powerful and deep. Each one jolted Starscream’s frame, forcing low, guttural moans from his intake. He was pinned, utterly possessed, his elegant wings trembling under the force of the larger mech’s onslaught.

The charge began to build again, far too quickly, a fire stoked back to life by a master. Starscream’s protests turned into pleas, his vocalizer glitching.

Soundwave obeyed the only part of that plea that mattered. He did not stop. He drove into him, again and again, the wet, rhythmic sound of their joining filling the small chamber. He leaned forward, his mouth finding the spot where wing met back, and bit down—not hard enough to dent, but with enough pressure to make Starscream scream, his valve clenching violently around the invading spike.

The second overload ripped through him, a shocking, unexpected wave that left him dizzy. Soundwave rode him through it, his pace never faltering, drawing the sensations out until Starscream was sobbing, his claws tearing at the berth sheets.

Time lost all meaning. Soundwave was a force of nature, his stamina inexhaustible. He maneuvered Starscream’s pliant frame into a new position, then another. On his back, legs hooked over Soundwave’s shoulders, optics rolling back as a talented glossa licked a hot stripe up his valve while thick fingers stretched him. Bent over the edge of the berth, his wings splayed and vulnerable as Soundwave took him from behind, each thrust punctuated by a sharp slap on his aft that sent jolts of delicious shame and pleasure straight to his core. Curled on his side, with Soundwave wrapped around him, moving inside him with a deep, intimate friction that felt like it was stroking his very spark.

He lost count of the overloads. They blurred into a continuous loop of mounting tension and explosive release. His world narrowed to the heat of the body surrounding him, the scent of charged ozone and their mixed lubricants, the sound of strained venting and skin-on-metal slaps, and the deep, commanding voice in his audial, whispering praise and filth in equal measure. “So responsive… so perfect… take it… you are mine to use…”

He was a mess, dripping, trembling, his vocalizer raw from screaming. Every sensor was alight, buzzing with a pleasure so intense it bordered on agony. The ambitious, proud Air Commander was gone, stripped away layer by layer, replaced by a mewling, keening thing that lived only for the next thrust, the next touch, the next world-shattering peak.

And through it all, Soundwave was his anchor, his tormentor, his god. He was everywhere, his silence broken only by those gravelly, earth-shattering commands and the increasingly ragged sounds of his own exertion.

Finally, after what felt like both an instant and a lifetime, Soundwave’s rhythm stuttered. His grip on Starscream’s hips became vise-like, his frame tensing like a coiled spring. A low, guttural groan vibrated through Starscream’s entire being, a sound of pure, unbridled completion. He felt the hot, sudden rush of transfluid deep inside him, a final, claiming flood that triggered one last, weak, convulsive overload from his own overspent systems.

The tension shattered. Soundwave’s massive frame went limp, collapsing forward with a heavy, final thud, pinning Starscream completely beneath him. They lay there in a tangled, wet heap, both systems screaming, vents heaving in ragged, unison gasps. The only sounds were their struggling cooling systems and the faint, wet drip of fluids onto the berth below. Utterly exhausted. Completely spent. Thoroughly dirty.

Starscream tried to form a word, a thought, but his processor was a blissful, empty void. His optics dimmed, the world fading at the edges. Just before he surrendered to the inevitable systems crash, he felt a final, heavy shift from the mech on top of him, and a whisper, hot against his audial.

"Rest. We have nineteen long days on the training front until you can serve Lord Megatron"

Soundwave was loyal to Megatron to the end and would do anything for him,although he lost himself by taking the seal of Starscream the Third in Command Decepticon quickly returned to being the faithful right arm of Megatron and,as soon as Starscream surrendered to his stasis, Soundwave immediately sent the first images and short videos he made during the interface to Megatron with the claims that he would train Starscream to serve very well and to be loyal to the Decepticons.

Chapter Text

The low, resonant hum of the Nemesis was a constant, familiar thrum in Megatron’s quarters. But tonight, a different frequency demanded his attention. A priority data-pulse, encrypted with a signature he knew as well as his own: Soundwave.

A slow, predatory grin spread across his faceplates. Rumors had been circulating through theDecepticons now, whispers of Shockwave’s latest obsession with poly-sparkbound theory and Soundwave’s… practical application of it. The notion of binding the ambitious, volatile seeker to not one, but three masters, was a madness Megatron could appreciate. It was the ultimate control. The ultimate subjugation of a will that constantly sought to supersede his own.

He opened the file.

The first image bloomed across his main viewscreen. Starscream. His second-in-command, usually a portrait of sharp angles and sharper words, was rendered soft. His faceplates were flushed a warm, deep mauve, his optics half-shuttered and dazed. And there, pressed against his parted lips, were two of Soundwave’s thick, dark digits. Starscream’s glossa was visible, tracing the seams of the fingers with a languid, thirsty rhythm. The seeker looked wrecked. Pliant. Perfect.

“Clearly the catalyst is taking effect,” Megatron mused, his own systems giving a low, interested thrum. Shockwave’s chemical concoction was doing its job, priming the seeker’s frame, making him more receptive. More needy.

He commanded the console to advance.

The next image was even better. A close-up of that haughty, beautiful face, now streaked and spattered with pearlescent, viscous fluid. Soundwave’s transfluid. It painted a stark, claiming contrast against the seeker’s pale gray cheek, dripping from his chin onto the berth below. Starscream’s optics were closed, his expression one of overwhelmed, sated bliss. He had accepted it. He had tasted it.

A heavy, insistent pressure began to build in Megatron’s own array. The urge was sudden and undeniable. With a sharp hydraulic hiss, the panels of his lower abdomen retracted, and his spike pressurized into the cool air of his quarters. It was a formidable thing, thick and ridged, already glowing with the heat of his building charge.

He continued the slideshow, one hand wrapping around his length, his grip firm and practiced. The images gave way to video clips, silent but devastatingly eloquent.

There was Starscream, arching off a berth, his mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure. There he was, legs splayed, presenting that most rare and fascinating of features. The valve.

Megatron’s venting hitched. He’d heard the reports, of course. A spike-free frame. Exceptionally rare. And Starscream’s… it was a marvel. A delicate, intricate plexus of biolights and flexible plating in a stunning, translucent blue. It pulsed on the screen, clenching around nothing, glistening with lubricant and the evidence of Soundwave’s earlier attentions. It looked both incredibly delicate and desperately hungry.

His fist began to move on his spike, a slow, steady pump. “Magnificent,” the warlord growled to the empty room, his voice a low rumble. The image of that vulnerable, pulsing valve filled his processor. To see the proud seeker brought so low, laid bare and presented like this… it was a power trip unlike any battle victory.

The video continued. Soundwave’s glossa, a dark, clever muscle, emerged to lap at the glittering folds. Starscream’s entire body jolted on the berth, his wings flaring before shuddering violently. Megatron could almost hear the choked, staticky moan that must have escaped him. He watched, mesmerized, as Soundwave’s mouth worked, licking and sucking with a focused intensity, as if determined to drink the very spark from the seeker’s frame.

Megatron’s pace quickened. The rough texture of his own hand on his sensitive spike, the visual of Starscream’s complete and utter surrender, the knowledge that this was all for him, a preview of what was to come—it was an intoxicating cocktail. His hips began to piston in time with his hand, a low groan escaping him.

He pictured it. Not on a screen, but in this very room. Starscream on his knees. Or bent over the war table. That blue valve, dripping and ready, presented for his use. The seeker’s sharp, bitter defiance melted away into the mindless, pleading babble of overwhelming sensation. He would break that pride, not with violence, but with a pleasure so deep and relentless it would forge a new dependency. Soundwave was the preparer. The primer. But Megatron… he would be the culmination.

The video looped. Starscream’s overload. His back arched in a tense, beautiful curve, his valve spasming wildly around Soundwave’s relentless tongue. The sight was the final push Megatron needed. His own systems peaked, and with a guttural roar that echoed in the spacious chamber, he spent his transfluid across the console and floor, his optics locked on the frozen image of Starscream’s ecstasy.

He vented heavily, the afterglow settling over him. He wiped a hand across the viewscreen, smearing the image of Starscream’s valve. A deep, possessive rumble started in his chest.

Soon, he thought, his spark pulsing with a dark, hungry anticipation. Very soon.

He opened a new comms line, his voice still thick with static. “Soundwave. Status report. Is the asset prepared for its primary function?”

The comms request from Megatron buzzed against Soundwave’s internal processor like an insistent insect. He answered immediately, his own response a condensed data-burst of affirmation and status updates, even as his hands never stilled their methodical work.

He was in the washracks, the steady hum of solvent spray a quiet backdrop to Starscream’s deep, exhausted recharge. The seeker leaned heavily against Soundwave’s broad chest, his sleek frame pliant and utterly spent. Soundwave’s large, capable hands moved over him with a surprising tenderness, washing away the evidence of their hours of shared pleasure—the streaks of transfluid, the subtle scent of heated metal and overload.

Soundwave’s explanation to Megatron was a clinical stream of information, belying the intimacy of the scene. “Shockwave’s projection: nineteen solar cycles until asset is primed for initial sparkbonding. Procedure will be with this unit.” His visor glowed, reflecting the sheen of water on Starscream’s wings. “Medicinal application will commence daily. Side effects: increased processor suggestibility, heightened interface protocol anticipation. Reproductive programming will initiate final activation sequence.”

On the other end of the comm, in the opulent gloom of his private chamber, Megaton smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. It was the grimace of a tyrant seeing a complex war-game piece fall perfectly into place. The images Soundwave had sent earlier—of a blissed-out, pleading Starscream—played behind his optics. Now, the plan was in motion. Once bound not just to Soundwave, but to him and to Tarn, the seeker’s spark would be forever entangled with theirs. His ambition, his treacherous spark, would be re-forged into a new purpose: pleasure and production. A loyal soldier, yes, Megatron mused, his own panel tightening at the thought, but more importantly, a perfect vessel. He would generate an army of powerful new warriors, and Megatron would use that, use him, to finally, decisively crush Optimus Prime.

His voice was a low, rumbling order. “Train him well, Soundwave. Weld that obedience into his very struts. Tarn is next in the rotation, and we are both aware his methods lack… finesse. The asset must be prepared to withstand his attention.”

“Acknowledged,” Soundwave responded, the single word flat and devoid of opinion. The comm link severed.

His task in the washrack complete, Soundwave shut off the solvent. He lifted the unconscious seeker into his arms as if he weighed nothing. Starscream’s head lolled against his shoulder, a soft, unintentional whimper escaping his lips as he was moved. Soundwave carried him back into their quarters.

The room was transformed. the drones had been ruthlessly efficient. The berth was remade with sleek, black thermal blankets. The air was scrubbed clean, carrying only the faint, sterile scent of polish and ozone. There were no traces of the frantic, passionate struggle that had taken place there just hours before.

And there, standing beside the berth like a grim, purple statue, was Shockwave. In his one hand, he held a moss-green cube, its contents shimmering with a faint, malevolent luminescence.

“His systems have stabilized,” Shockwave stated, his single optic cycling through a brief focus adjustment on Starscream’s limp form. “His newfound compliance allows for oral administration. It is more efficient than injection.” He extended the cube to Soundwave. “Proceed. I will observe the physiological readings from the security feeds I have installed. The data on pre-sparkbond spark resonance is particularly critical.”

Soundwave took the cube. He laid Starscream down on the clean berth, arranging his long limbs with a possessiveness that seemed to contradict the coldness of the situation. He ran a thumb over the seeker’s cheekplate. Starscream stirred, his optics flickering online for a nanosecond, glazed and unseeing, before offlining again with a soft sigh.

Soundwave brought the cube to Starscream’s lips. “Consume,” he commanded, his voice a low, resonant vibration.

In his half-state, Starscream obeyed. His lips parted, and Soundwave tipped the viscous, green liquid into his mouth. Starscream’s throat cabling worked as he swallowed reflexively, a faint shudder running through his frame at the peculiar taste. When it was done, he sighed again, sinking deeper into recharge, a single streak of green liquid tracing a path from his lip to his chin.

Soundwave wiped it away with a tenderness that made Shockwave’s optic narrow slightly, data streaming across his vision. The scientist took the empty cube from Soundwave’s hand.

“My analysis here is complete,” Shockwave intoned, turning to leave. “Continue your… training. The data you generate is most illuminating.” The door hissed shut behind him, leaving Soundwave alone with his charge.

Soundwave stood over the berth, watching. The medicinal compound worked quickly. A low heat began to radiate from Starscream’s abdomen, a visible warmth that made the air above his interfacing panel shimmer. His breathing, once deep and even, shallowed into soft, quick vents. A needy, desperate energy began to replace the utter exhaustion in his frame. He shifted on the blankets, his low wings trembling slightly. A faint, pleading moan escaped him, a sound that was entirely unconscious and yet utterly inviting.

Soundwave’s visor brightened. He could feel the pull, the magnetic draw of Starscream’s newly awakened programming—a programming he himself had helped awaken. It called to his own spark, a siren song of pure, desperate need.

He climbed onto the berth, his weight causing the seeker to roll slightly toward him. Soundwave’s hand, so large and dark against the pale silver of Starscream’s hip, settled there. His thumb stroked the sensitive joint where leg met torso.

Starscream’s reaction was immediate and visceral. His back arched up off the berth, not in pain, but in a silent, powerful plea for more. His optics flew online, but they weren’t sharp with cunning or fear. They were hazy, glossed over with a deep, drug-fueled need. The green biolights along his frame, usually a cool blue, now pulsed with a warmer,Eager greenish-yellow light.

“S-Soundwave…” he slurred, his voice thick and dreamy. His own hands came up, weakly grasping at Soundwave’s broad chest plates. “It’s… it’s happening again. That heat… it’s everywhere. Please…”

Soundwave didn’t need a verbal command. The please was enough. He leaned down, his masked face hovering just above Starscream’s. He could feel the seeker’s warm, quick ex-vents against his own plating. With a quiet hum, the seals on his own interfacing panel released. His spike pressurized into its full, formidable length, resting heavily against Starscream’s trembling thigh.

Starscream’s gaze dropped down, his optics widening at the sight, a fresh wave of heat rolling through him. He was fragile, exposed, his every neuron screaming with a need only the mech above him could satisfy.

“The training continues,” Soundwave stated, his voice a deep promise as his hand slid from hip to thigh, gently coaxing Starscream’s legs apart. “Your preparation is essential.”

The metallic clatter of the box hitting the floor was a stark, cold sound in the heated atmosphere of the room. Soundwave’s visor flickered over Shockwave’s so-called ‘exotic toys’ for only a nanoklik before dismissing them. Crutches for the unimaginative. His own methods, his own frame, were more than sufficient. He nudged the container aside with a pede, a silent promise to some future, lesser mech.

But a darker current ran beneath his calm exterior. A thread of sadism, meticulously hidden behind layers of loyalty and silence, now pulsed in time with the low hum of his systems. He knew, with absolute certainty, what Megatron would be doing at that very moment. The images, the videos… they were not merely a status report. They were an offering, an invitation. And the Warlord would have accepted.

A quiet, internal command was issued. In the depths of the Nemesis, a private, encrypted channel flickered to life in Megatron’s quarters, the feed syncing perfectly with the leader’s own visual display. The show was live.

Soundwave’s attention returned to the seeker trembling beneath him. The medicinal fire was coursing through Starscream’s lines, making him pliant, desperate. Perfect.

“Starscream,” Soundwave’s voice was a low modulator, a direct order wrapped in a velvet tone. “Attend to me.”

Starscream’s optics, hazy with artificial need, dropped to the heavy, impressive spike resting against his thigh. A fresh wave of heat visibly shuddered through his frame. He didn’t hesitate, the compulsion too strong to resist. He slid down the berth, his movements sinuous and eager, until his face was level with Soundwave’s groin.

He started with a tentative lick along the underside, a flick of his glossa over the sensitive tip. A low, appreciative rumble echoed from Soundwave’s chassis. Emboldened, Starscream opened his mouth, his lipplates brushing against the rigid length before he took the tip inside. The taste was uniquely Soundwave: energon, ozone, and raw power. He swirled his tongue, exploring the slit, before sinking down further, taking more of the spike into the wet, welcome heat of his mouth.

Soundwave’s head tilted back, a rare show of relinquishing control. His fingers curled against the berth, but his focus was internal, on the silent, watching presence he knew was there. He opened the comm line, his voice a private, subvocalized whisper meant only for his leader. ::The channel is live, Lord Megatron. Your command is my function. This unit awaits your orders.::

In his command quarters, Megatron leaned forward in his throne-like chair, a massive hand stroking his own pressurized spike in a slow, rhythmic motion. The image before him was exquisite: the proud, treacherous Air Commander brought so low, so wanton, servile on his knees. And Soundwave, ever the perfect instrument, offering him the conductor’s baton. A dark smile spread across his faceplate.

::How very obliging, Soundwave,:: Megatron’s voice rumbled through the private comm. ::Let us see how well he has been trained. His first lesson in true submission. I want to see him drink. Make him take every last drop of your overload. I want to see him swallow it all. That is my order.::

The command was a jolt of pure electricity through Soundwave’s circuits. He looked down at Starscream, whose cheeks were hollowed with the effort of taking him deep, a thin trail of oral lubricant tracing a path down his chin. The seeker was lost in the act, a slave to the sensation and the drug, his wings quivering with effort.

Soundwave placed a firm, grounding hand on the back of Starscream’s head, not forcing, but guiding. “Our Lord is watching,” he murmured, his voice thick with static. “He has given a command. You will obey.”

Starscream’s optics flared wide for a moment, the knowledge that Megatron’s piercing gaze was upon him sending a confusing mix of shame and white-hot arousal through his spark. It only made him work harder, his glossa lashing against the sensitive nodes he discovered, his mouth sucking with renewed fervor. He was watching. The most powerful mech in the galaxy was watching him.

Soundwave could feel the telltale tightening in his array, the building pressure that signaled his impending peak. His grip on Starscream’s head tightened infinitesimally. “Prepare yourself,” he warned, his voice a guttural command.

The first powerful pulse was explosive. A hot, thick rush of transfluid shot into Starscream’s mouth. He gasped around the intrusion, optics snapping shut as the distinct, rich flavor flooded his senses. He instinctively tried to pull back, overwhelmed, but Soundwave’s hand held him firmly in place.

“Swallow,” Soundwave commanded, the order leaving no room for disobedience.

Starscream’s throat worked convulsively as the second, third, fourth waves followed, each one wringing a deep groan from Soundwave above him. He swallowed desperately, the action itself somehow deeply intimate, a tangible sign of his complete acquiescence. A few stray drops escaped his lips, tracing silvery paths down his neck cables, but he took the majority, consuming the physical proof of Soundwave’s—and by extension, Megatron’s—dominance.

When the last shuddering wave subsided, Soundwave finally released his hold. Starscream fell back onto his heels, gasping for air, his glossa darting out to catch the last traces on his lips. His entire frame was thrumming, his valve clenching rhythmically around nothing, soaked and aching for attention.

Soundwave looked down at the debauched, beautiful sight, then turned his head slightly, as if addressing a presence in the room. “The order has been executed, my Lord.”

A low, pleased laugh echoed in Soundwave’s comm, followed by a new, more demanding order. ::Excellent. Now, let us see that rare valve of his. Put him on his hands and knees. I want a clear view.::

Soundwave smiles, he will obey.

Chapter Text

Soundwave’s visor flickered, processing the command. Megatron’s presence was a heavy, static-filled weight in his comm. ::Now.:: The single word was a lash of impatience. Without a word, Soundwave’s large hands shifted, turning the pliant seeker over onto his hands and knees. Starscream gasped, his wings fluttering in a weak, disoriented protest, the movements still sluggish from his recent overload and the potent medicine coursing through his lines.

His modesty, what little he had left, was now completely forfeit. Soundwave gently but firmly parted the seeker’s thighs, spreading him open for the unseen, all-seeing gaze of their leader. The soft, translucent blue of his valve was fully exposed, the delicate petals still glistening and twitching faintly from the aftermath of his climax.

Across the Nemesis, in his private quarters, Megatron’s engine released a deafening, guttural roar. The sound was pure, unadulterated hunger. On the live feed, the detail was exquisite. He could see everything. The way the delicate calipers of Starscream’s valve fluttered with each shaky ex-vent. The way the soft, inner mesh was a slightly deeper hue of blue, slick and inviting. It looked so small, so impossibly tight. His own massive hand pumped his thick spike in a ruthless, punishing rhythm, the image before him fueling a dark, possessive fire. How would his girth ever fit inside such a perfect, little entrance? The thought was not a concern but a savage promise.

Soundwave, his own arousal a secondary priority to his function, obeyed the next unspoken order. He brought one long, steady finger to the seeker’s entrance. Starscream jolted at the touch, a sharp gasp escaping him. It was different this time. Cold, clinical. For an audience.

“Shhh,” Soundwave’s modulated voice was a quiet thrum, meant only for Starscream’s audials. A reassurance and a command all at once.

The finger pressed inward, not with the driving need of before, but with a slow, deliberate purpose. It was an invasion meant for display, not for pleasure. Soundwave opened him, spreading his delicate inner folds so Megatron could see the hidden, glistening depths. Starscream’s helm hung low, his shoulders trembling with a mix of residual ecstasy and a dawning, humiliated awareness of his own exposure.

In the cold, sterile silence of his lab, Shockwave observed it all. On one screen, the security feed displayed the raw, intimate act. On another, two waveforms pulsed in mesmerizing, luminous green. One was steady, a deep and resonant frequency he knew to be Soundwave’s spark signature. The other, Starscream’s, was a frantic, chaotic staccato. But as he watched, a fascinating phenomenon occurred. The seeker’s erratic pulse began to slow, its wild peaks and valleys subtly smoothing, its rhythm gradually shifting, changing, to match the deeper, more powerful thrum of Soundwave’s own. They were harmonizing. Synchronizing.

A rare flicker of pure, intellectual excitement ran through Shockwave’s logical circuits. Fascinating. They were only on the third day of the regimen, and the seeker’s response was exceeding all projected parameters. The compatibility was unprecedented. This was not merely acceptance; this was a physiological yearning. The data, the perfect synchronicity of their sparks… it pointed to a theory Shockwave had only ever read about in archived Cybertronian texts.

Carrier-types. Mythically rare. So fertile they could bear multiple sparklings across a lifespan, their frames built not for protoform gestation, but for producing fertile eggs where new sparks would grow to full term, emerging fully formed. And for a seeker to be one… it was an anomaly upon an anomaly. Seekers laid eggs, yes, but they were typically inert, requiring external spark investment. A seeker Carrier, however… his frame would not just carry the eggs, it would create the sparks within them. The ultimate prize.

His single optic remained fixed on the screens. On one, Soundwave withdrew his finger, the seeker’s valve clenching around the sudden absence. On the other, Starscream’s spark pulse spiked in a tiny, desperate tremor before desperately clinging to the rhythm of Soundwave’s once more. Perfect.

Back in the berth, Starscream whined, the sound high and needy. The clinical touch was a torment after the searing pleasure that had come before. The medicinal fire in his lines was reigniting, demanding more than just a spectator’s show. He was hot, so hot, and the empty ache was returning with a vengeance. He pushed his hips back, a silent, begging plea against the hand that held him open.

Soundwave received the new command instantly. ::Prepare him. I want to see him stretch. I want to see him ready for me.:: Megatron’s voice was thick with the strain of his own impending overload.

Soundwave shifted his position, moving to kneel more fully behind the seeker. Two of his fingers, slick with the seeker’ own transfluid, pressed against that twitching, exposed valve. Starscream’s back arched dramatically, a choked cry echoing off the tiles. He was so sensitive.

“Please…” Starscream whispered, the word barely audible.

Soundwave said nothing, but his actions were an answer. He pushed both fingers deep inside in one smooth, unyielding motion. Starscream’s valve stretched around the intrusion, the delicate blue mesh straining beautifully, illuminated for Megatron’s viewing pleasure. A low, continuous moan was torn from the seeker’s vocalizer as Soundwave began to move, a slow, scissoring motion that worked him open, making every millimeter of the process visible.

The stretch was exquisite, a burning fullness that walked the razor’s edge between pain and mind-numbing pleasure. Starscream’s claws scraped against the wet tiles as he pushed back, meeting the slow, rhythmic thrusts of Soundwave’s fingers, needing more. His whole world had narrowed to this: the hard floor beneath his knees, the large, unfeeling hand on his hip, and the devastating, deliberate stretch inside him that was being broadcast to his master.

Megatron’s ventilation hitched, his own movements growing frantic. “Yes. Just like that. He will be magnificent.”

Soundwave curled his fingers, seeking, and brushed against a cluster of internal sensory nodes.

Starscream screamed.

The slick, cold sensation hit his overheated valve like a shard of ice tossed into a smelting pit. Starscream gasped, his back arching sharply off the berth, a startled cry catching in his vocalizer.

“Shhh,” Soundwave’s voice was a low, soothing rumble directly against his audial, the vibration a counterpoint to the shocking chill. “It is only lubricant. It will heighten sensation. You will enjoy it.”

His broad, gloved hand was already moving, his fingers spreading the slick, cool substance around his outer folds, coating every sensitive node and cable with deliberate, slick strokes. The initial shock began to fade, replaced by a tingling, electrifying numbness that seemed to amplify every subsequent touch a thousandfold. Starscream whimpered, a soft, broken sound, his claws digging into the berthcover beneath him. His optics were wide, locked on Soundwave’s unmasked face, on the intense focus he found there.

Soundwave’s gaze never left Starscream’s as he applied more of the clear gel, his movements efficient yet worshipful. He circled the pulsing, translucent blue entrance, teasing it with the very tip of his finger before slowly, so slowly, pushing a digit inside to coat the inner channel.

Starscream’s helm fell back. A long, shuddering moan tore from him as the cold liquid fire spread inside him, a shocking, delicious contrast to the inferno of his own internal heat. It was too much, it was not enough. He was melting, dissolving under Soundwave’s meticulous touch.

And Soundwave was not done.

The cold, slicked hand left his valve, tracing a path up his trembling abdominal plates, leaving a glistening trail. It moved higher, over the curve of his cockpit glass, smearing the lubricant in a slow, circular motion. Starscream jolted at the intimate, unexpected touch on such a vulnerable surface, a fresh wave of heat flooding his faceplates. He was being marked, claimed in this most bizarre and decadent way.

Then, those skilled fingers found the leading edges of his wings.

A choked sob of pure, unadulterated sensation escaped him. The lubricant was like liquid energy on the hyper-sensitive nodes that lined the delicate structures. Soundwave’s touch was firm, massaging the gel into the struts and seams, from the root to the very tip. Every nerve in Starscream’s frame lit up at once. His entire world narrowed to the four points of contact: his valve, his cockpit, and his wings. He was panting, writhing, completely at the mercy of the sensations, a live wire of need.

From the console across the room, a low, guttural groan echoed, followed by the wet, messy sound of frantic movement. Megatron’s voice, thick and ragged with static, cut through the haze of Starscream’s pleasure. “By the Pit… look at him. Look at the state of him. Soundwave… your work is… perfection.”

A final, raw roar from the comms, the sound of a massive frame shuddering, and then a heavy, satisfied ex-vent. The distinct, sticky sound of transfluid hitting the floor followed.

Soundwave’s visor flickered. He did not need to be told twice.

In one fluid, powerful motion, he positioned himself between Starscream’s splayed legs. The seeker was a vision of debauched bliss, lubricant gleaming on his blue and silver frame, his valve clenching around nothing, dripping with the cool gel and his own natural arousal. His optics were hazy, his mouth slightly agape.

Soundwave’s own spike, fully pressurized and gleaming with his own readiness, nudged against Starscream’s entrance. The contrast of heat against the chilled, sensitized nerves made Starscream cry out, his hips bucking involuntarily.

“Now, Soundwave!” Megatron’s command was a post-overload growl, dripping with dark amusement and command. “Do not be gentle. Ravage him. I want to see him fold.”

Soundwave needed no further encouragement. With a single, powerful thrust, he sheathed himself fully inside the ice-and-fire clutch of Starscream’s valve.

Starscream’s scream was pure ecstasy. The stretch was instantaneous and absolute, the shocking cold of his own prepared channel gripping the burning heat of Soundwave’s spike in a vice of impossible sensation. It was overwhelming, a sensory barrage that shorted out every coherent thought. He could feel every ridge, every pulse of Soundwave’s length, amplified by the lubricant into razor-sharp clarity.

Soundwave did not pause. He set a brutal, punishing pace from the start, each thrust a claim, a punishment, a reward. The wet, filthy sound of their joining filled the room, punctuated by Starscream’s ragged cries and the creak of the berth. Soundwave’s hands anchored on Starscream’s hips, holding him in place, his own large frame driving into the seeker with primal force.

“You are mine,” Soundwave growled, his voice stripped of its usual modulation, raw and possessive. His thrusts became sharper, deeper, angling to stroke that devastating internal cluster of nodes with every plunge.

Starscream could only sob, his claws tearing at the berth, his optics streaming cleansing fluid. He was nothing but a vessel for pleasure, completely full, utterly claimed. The world dissolved into a symphony of sensation: the deep, filling thrusts, the cold-heat friction, the grip on his hips, the roaring in his audials.

Megatron watched, his own overload cooling on his hand, his red optics burning with dark satisfaction. “Yes. Just like that. Make him scream for me.”

Soundwave obeyed, his pace turning frenzied, his own composure finally shattering against the overwhelming tightness and the seeker’s wanton cries. He was close, so close, driving them both toward the edge with relentless, powerful strokes.

The world was a blur of sensation, a cyclone of overstimulation and raw, unadulterated need. Soundwave’s grip on Starscream’s hips was like iron, his powerful frame pistoning into the seeker with a rhythm that was no longer calculated or controlled, but feral. The cold floor plates of the berthroom were a shocking contrast to the inferno raging within Starscream’s frame, his own heat radiating out to meet the chill, creating a dizzying friction that made his sensor net scream.

He gasped, the air in his intakes hitching as Soundwave’s spike forged a path deep inside him, stretching him with a delicious, unbearable fullness. “S-Soundwave… please… slower,” Starscream managed to whimper, his voice a broken static-laced plea. His claws scraped against the unyielding berth, scrambling for purchase that wasn’t there. “It’s… it’s too much…!”

Soundwave’s only response was a low, guttural groan that vibrated through their joined frames. He leaned forward, his massive chest pressing against Starscream’s back, trapping him completely. One hand slid from the seeker’s hip to his abdomen, splaying possessively over the warm armor there, as if feeling the shape of his own spike moving deep within. “You can take it,” Soundwave’s modulated voice was a hot whisper against his audio receptor, the words laced with a dark, thrilling promise. “You were built for this. To be filled. To be claimed.”

He punctuated the last word with a particularly sharp, deep thrust that made Starscream’s vision whiten at the edges. A choked cry was torn from his vocalizer, a sound that was equal parts agony and ecstasy. The overload that had been simmering just beneath his plating, the one he thought impossible after so many, was cresting again, pulled from him by Soundwave’s relentless, brutal pace. His valve clenched rhythmically, desperately around the invader, milking the thick length as his biolights flared in a cascade of blue-white light.

Soundwave grunted, his own systems seizing as he was dragged over the edge by the seeker’s intense contraction. His transfluid, a vibrant, cooling blue, flooded Starscream’s channel, mixing with the seeker’s own pink-tinged lubricants. For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged venting and the soft, wet sounds of their connection.

But the reprieve was terrifyingly brief.

With a roughness that stole the air from Starscream’s intakes, Soundwave withdrew, his spike depressurizing only slightly. He rolled the trembling seeker onto his back, the motion fluid and unnervingly strong. Starscream’s optics were half-shuttered, his frame thrumming with the aftershocks. He watched, dazed, as Soundwave positioned himself over the live feed camera, using two fingers to gently part Starscream’s swollen, glistening valve lips, showcasing the evidence of his possession—the intermingled fluids that seeped from the sensitive, trembling opening.

The clinical, possessive act sent a fresh, confusing jolt through Starscream. It was degrading. It was exhilarating.

And then it was gone, replaced by a sudden, shocking emptiness. Soundwave moved with startling speed, hooking an arm around Starscream’s waist and unceremoniously pulling him off the berth. The seeker yelped as he landed hard on the cold floor, the impact jolting his overheated systems. The contrast was so severe it sent a violent tremor through his entire frame.

Before he could even process the shock, powerful hands were on him again, flipping him onto his front and lifting his hips high into the air, presenting him once more. A broken sob escaped Starscream. He was so sensitive, so utterly raw.

Soundwave did not wait. He did not prepare him. The blunt, already-repressurizing head of his spike pressed against the soaked, stretched entrance and he sheathed himself inside in one single, devastating thrust.

Starscream’s scream was muffled by the floor, his body bowing under the overwhelming invasion. Soundwave moved like a mech possessed, his thrusts losing all semblance of rhythm, becoming a frantic, animalistic rutting. His hands gripped Starscream’s wings, not to cause pain, but to hold him in place, to dominate him completely. The sound of their plating crashing together filled the room, a brutal, carnal music.

In his lab, far from the heat and the sweat and the passion, Shockwave watched the data stream on his monitor. His single optic brightened with intense interest. The seeker’s spark pulse, a frantic, staccato rhythm, was syncing more profoundly with Soundwave’s own steady, powerful thrum. The correlation was undeniable.

''Ah. Fascinating'', he mused, his logical mind whirring. ''The seeker frame-type, particularly this rare carrier-model, appears to possess a biological imperative to be… tamed. Overpowered. They crave the dominance of a larger, stronger mech. It is not mere psychology. It is encoded in their very CNA.''

He turned from the screen, a new hypothesis already forming. The current medicinal compound was effective, but it was merely stoking the fire. He needed a catalyst. Something to explosively accelerate the process, to force Starscream’s frame to fully surrender to its biological destiny. His servo hovered over a cabinet containing highly experimental, restricted ampules. A stronger mixture. One that would strip away the last vestiges of the seeker’s control and leave him with nothing but pure, unfiltered need for the next eight solar cycles.

A soft, humorless chuckle escaped his vocalizer. The irony was… statistically significant. Soundwave believed he had seventeen days of this intoxicating possession ahead of him. But his current methods, this raw and brutal claiming, were achieving the desired state far quicker than projected. Shockwave’s calculations now predicted readiness in only eight days.

The Communications Officer, lost in his primal hunger, was unknowingly fast-tracking his own replacement. Soon, the seeker would be primed for his first sparkbond. And then, he would be handed over to Tarn for the final, permanent claiming.

''Oh, the data from that transfer will be magnificent'', Shockwave thought, already anticipating the torrent of new information. He watched as Soundwave drove into the sobbing seeker one last, final time, his roar of overload echoing through the comms feed. ''Simply magnificent.''

Chapter Text

The soft berth in theprivate quarters seemed to swallow Starscream’s slender frame. He lay back, his famous wings fanned out beneath him, their low, submissive angle a stark contrast to their usual proud cant. Heat radiated from his armor in waves, and his vents hitched in a quick, uneven rhythm that spoke of overstimulation and a deep, rising need.

Soundwave stood over him, his broad silhouette blocking the dim overhead light. He had spent solar cycles stoking this fire, and now, with Shockwave’s urgent communique burning in his HUD, the final step was upon them. But for this… for the sparkbond… it had to be different. It couldn’t be another act of brutal conquest for Megatron’s feed. This required a reverence Starscream had never been afforded.

Slowly, with a deliberation that made the air in the room grow thick, Soundwave reached up. The locks on his faceplate disengaged with a series of soft, definitive clicks. He lowered the mask, setting it aside on a nearby console. His true face, rarely seen, was all sharp angles and solemn intensity, his expression unreadable yet utterly focused on the seeker below him.

Starscream’s optics widened, his breath catching. The intimacy of the gesture was more shocking than any command. Soundwave lowered himself, one knee on the berth, then the other, caging Starscream in without touching him. He leaned down, and his lips met Starscream’s in a kiss that was startlingly soft. It was not the claiming bite of a superior, but the searching pressure of an equal. For a nanoklik, Starscream froze, processor stuttering. Then, a tiny, broken sound escaped him, and he was kissing back, his own lips moving tentatively against Soundwave’s. It was clumsy, desperate, and utterly genuine.

They broke apart, vents cycling air heavily. Soundwave didn’t pause. He trailed his lips from Starscream’s mouth, down the elegant line of his jaw, to the sensitive bundle of cables at his neck. He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss there, and Starscream shuddered, a full-frame convulsion of pure sensation. A high, thin whimper escaped his vocalizer. Soundwave soothed the spot with his glossa, tracing the intricate lines, earning another, needier sound.

His hand, large and capable, followed the path of his mouth. It slid down the seeker’s front, over the smooth plane of his abdominal plating, and lower, until his fingers brushed the heated panel guarding Starscream’s valve.

Starscream’s entire body went rigid. He gasped, a sharp, startled intake of air, and his back arched off the berth, pressing his chestplate against Soundwave’s. The sensation was entirely new, a bolt of white-hot lightning spearing through his core. His optics flickered, overwhelmed.

“Shhh,” Soundwave whispered, his voice a low, resonant hum directly into Starscream’s audio receptor. The vibration traveled straight to his spark. “It is acceptable. The sensation is normal. You are safe.”

The words, the tone, the sheer proximity of him… it unspooled something tightly wound inside the seeker. The tension bled from his struts. He felt… safe. The paradoxical truth of it was dizzying. He was pinned beneath the most silent and terrifying mech on the Nemesis, and he felt safe.

“I’m… I’m so hot,” Starscream whispered back, his voice trembling. “Soundwave… please. More.”

Soundwave’s visor glowed with a soft, satisfied light. “Open for me.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Starscream obeyed. His modesty panel slid aside with a quiet hiss.

The valve beneath was revealed, and Soundwave stilled for a moment, taking it in. It was a beautiful, translucent blue now because of the changes in his programms, shimmering with internal biolight, each delicate fold pulsing with the frantic rhythm of Starscream’s spark. It was pristine, untouched, and utterly lacking a spike. The rarity of it, the sheer vulnerability of it, sent a possessive thrill through Soundwave’s circuits.

A wave of intense shame washed over Starscream. His legs instinctively tried to snap shut, to hide his apparent inadequacy. “Don’t—”

But Soundwave was faster. He moved with a fluid grace, sliding down the berth and pressing his shoulders between Starscream’s thighs, forcing them apart. He held them there, not with brutality, but with an unshakable certainty. He bent his head, and before Starscream could process the movement, Soundwave’s mouth was on him.

The seeker cried out, a ragged, stunned moan as a hot, wet glossa swept over his outer folds. The sensation was electric, utterly foreign, and devastatingly good. Soundwave didn’t just taste; he worshipped. He licked a slow, steady stripe from bottom to top, circling the apex but avoiding the hyper-sensitive node already begging for attention. He nuzzled into the soft, slick folds, drinking in the seeker’s unique charge and flavor.

“Frag… oh, frag…” Starscream babbled, his claws scrabbling against the berth sheets. His hips gave an aborted, helpless jerk, trying to get more of that maddening pressure.

Soundwave’s hands slid under Starscream’s aft, lifting him closer, giving himself better access. He finally focused his attention, his glossa flicking over Starscream’s node in a rapid, precise rhythm.

Starscream screamed. His world telescoped down to that single, exquisite point of contact. Pleasure, sharp and blinding, ripped through him. He was melting, spark spinning wildly in its chamber, completely at the mercy of the mech between his legs. Soundwave groaned against him, the vibration a fresh torture, and plunged his glossa deeper, parting his folds, tasting the very essence of him.

The alert from Shockwave flashed again in Soundwave’s vision, more urgent this time. SPARK SYNCHRONIZATION AT 99.8%. INITIATE CONJUNX ENDURA PROTOCOL. NOW.

Soundwave pulled back, his face glistening with Starscream’s lubricants. The seeker whined at the loss, Optics clouded with desperate need. “Why did you stop? Don’t stop… please…”

Soundwave moved back up his body, his weight settling over him. He looked down into Starscream’s optics, his expression grave. “The time has come, Starscream. Your spark calls to mine. You must open your chamber.”

Starscream’s fear spiked, cutting through the haze of pleasure. To show one’s spark was the ultimate vulnerability. “I… I can’t…”

“You can,” Soundwave murmured, his voice imbued with a compelling resonance. He placed a hand over Starscream’s spark chamber. The glass felt scorching hot. “We are in harmony. Let me see you. All of you.”

Trembling, driven by a need deeper than fear, Starscream focused. The heavy armor of his chestplate began to part, the layers of protective glass retracting. A brilliant, blinding blue light spilled out, illuminating Soundwave’s face. His own spark chamber hissed open in response, his own light, a deep, resonant crimson, reaching out to mingle with Starscream’s.

The energy crackled between them, a promise of pure, undiluted connection. The air hummed with potential.

“Soundwave…” Starscream whispered, his optics wide with awe and terror.

Soundwave lowered himself, bringing their sparks into closer alignment. The pull was magnetic, inevitable. “Embrace it.”

The light was not a collision, but a fusion. A silent, cosmic detonation that seared through every circuit, every line of code, every atom of their beings. Starscream’s celestial blue spark, shot through with filaments of brilliant gold, coiled and danced with Soundwave’s own deep, vibrant cobalt. Their energies did not just touch; they merged, weaving together into a single, throbbing nexus of light and consciousness. A shared sensation of completeness, of a gap neither had truly acknowledged now being irrevocably filled, washed over them.

Then came the pain. A white-hot, searing feedback as two powerful, volatile sparks forged a permanent connection. Starscream’s cry was a sharp, static-laced shriek that cut through the humming energy. His frame went rigid, back struts arching violently off the berth before the overload on his system triggered an emergency protocol. His optics flickered and died. The brilliant light of his spark chamber snapped shut, his entire form slumping into the deep, unresponsive silence of stasis.

The sudden void in Soundwave’s own spark was a physical blow. He staggered back, a hand flying to his own chestplate, the new, constant hum of Starscream’s dormant spark a ghostly echo in his own.

The door hissed open, breaking the sacred silence. Shockwave stood there, his single optic cycling through a brief focus adjustment on the two mechs. Two medical drones hovered behind him like silent, mechanical vultures. “The bonding is confirmed,” he stated, his voice devoid of any congratulatory tone. It was a data point, recorded and filed. “Your function is complete, Soundwave. Exit the premises.”

Soundwave did not move. His visor remained fixed on Starscream’s still form. The urge to stand guard, to protect the vulnerable seeker he was now intrinsically tethered to, was a primal command overriding all others.

A new voice boomed from the corridor, deep and absolute. “Soundwave.”

Megatron stood there, the imposing bulk of his frame filling the doorway. Beside him was Tarn, even larger, his famous mask in place, radiating silent, patient menace. The order was not repeated. It hung in the air, a test of loyalty.

Soundwave’s head bowed. He turned from the berth, every movement an agony of separation, and obeyed his lord. He walked past the two powerful mechs, his hand never leaving the spot on his chassis where he could still feel the faint, sleeping pulse of his new bondmate.

As he exited, the drones whirred to life. One began methodically scanning the room for residual energy signatures. The other two approached the berth. With bizarre gentleness, they began to cleanse Starscream’s frame, wiping away the traces of transfluid and lubricant, polishing his plating until he gleamed under the dim lights, a perfect, unconscious offering.

In the corridor, Shockwave addressed the trio. “The primary bond is stable. The seeker’s systems are recalibrating to accommodate the new spark frequency. The secondary bonding, however, will require a more… persuasive approach.” He produced a cube of energon, its hue a disturbingly dark, almost black, green. It seemed to pulse with a faint light of its own. He offered it to Tarn.

“This is a refined version of the compound,” Shockwave explained. “Its effects are exponentially stronger. It will not merely lower inhibitions; it will create a profound physiological need for interface, for connection, specifically attuning his new spark to seek out Tarn’s. He must consume it. All of it.”

Tarn took the cube, his grip firm. “I will ensure his compliance.”

Shockwave then turned his optic to Soundwave. “There is a complication. The bond is a two-way conduit. You will feel everything he feels. His panic. His pleasure. His pain. Your opposition to the process will feed his own resistance, causing a feedback loop that will make the bonding impossible. Therefore, you must not only permit it… you must endORSE it. You must, through the bond, encourage him to accept Tarn. You must make him believe that you desire this for him, for us.”

Megatron’s red optics gleamed with dark amusement. He placed a heavy, familiar hand on Soundwave’s shoulder. “And to ensure your… cooperation, I will personally see to it that you are preoccupied.” His voice dropped to a low, intimate rumble. “I will make you remember the Pits of Kaon. I will make you remember the feel of my hands on your frame, the raw, uncomplicated pleasure we shared in the shadows of the arena. You will feel pleasure, Soundwave, and through you, Starscream will learn that his bonded finds ecstasy in his sharing. He will crave it himself.”

The logic was perverse, inescapable. Soundwave stood silent, his visor dim. He could feel the first faint stirrings of the seeker’s consciousness, a drowsy, confused awakening in the other room.

Shockwave’s optic brightened with satisfaction. “A perfect solution. The seeker’s biological imperative for multiple partners will be activated. He will not just accept a harem; he will require it. It is, after all, in his very coding.”

Inside the quarters, Starscream’s optics onlined, glowing a soft, hazy blue. He was disoriented, his frame humming with a new, profound energy. The first thing he felt was not the memory of the sparkbond, but a deep, empty aching between his legs. His valve, so recently and thoroughly used, throbbed with a fresh, desperate hunger. His talons flexed against the berth, and a low, needy whimper escaped his lips.

The door opened again. Tarn entered, alone, the dark green cube in his hand. The door closed, sealing them in.

Soundwave, standing rigid in the corridor, flinched as the seeker’s sudden, chemical-fueled want slammed into him through the bond, a wave of heat and longing. He felt his own panel strain, pressurized from within.

Megaton’s grip on his shoulder tightened, pulling him away. “Come, old friend,” he purred, his voice dripping with dark promise. “Let us reacquaint ourselves. I will help you… focus on the pleasure.”

The ache was a living thing, a throbbing, hollow want between his thighs that pulled Starscream from stasis. His optics onlined, adjusting to the dim light of the quarter's. The berth was too soft, unfamiliar,new,changed. The air smelled of sterilizer and… someone else. Panic, sharp and acidic, lanced through his systems. Soundwave. Where was he? Their bond, that new, terrifyingly intimate tether, hummed with a faint, distant warmth, but it wasn’t enough. He needed the solid weight of him, the cool reassurance of his presence. He pushed himself up on his elbows, his wings giving a frantic, rattling flutter. Alone. He was alone.

The door hissed open. Not Soundwave. The massive, terrifying silhouette of Tarn filled the frame, a dark green cube held casually in one hand. The door sealed behind him with a final, ominous click. Starscream’s spark lurched, his valve clenching around nothing, a fresh wave of that desperate, chemically-induced hunger washing over him. It was a betrayal of his own frame, this need that spiked at the sight of the DJD leader.

Through the bond, he felt a sudden, sharp jolt of answering sensation. Not here. Elsewhere. A phantom pressure, a wet, sliding heat that wasn't his own. It was followed by a cascade of foreign pleasure, a deliberate, calming pulse. It’s all right. Accept it. Soundwave’s voice, not in his audials, but in his very spark.

*

Megatron’s throne room was cavernous and empty, their footsteps echoing off the cold metal walls. The warlord sealed the doors with his personal code, the heavy locks engaging with a series of definitive thunks. He didn’t bother with ceremony, simply settling onto the immense throne and releasing his interface panel with a low, hydraulic sigh.

His spike pressurized, immense and thick, a intimidating shade of gunmetal grey that matched the powerful chassis it emerged from. Below it, his valve was a darker, wetter shadow, large and intimidating, perfectly suited to his brutalist frame. He rested a heavy hand on the arm of his throne. “As in the old days, Soundwave.”

The order was clear. Soundwave knelt, the cool floor plating biting into his knees. He leaned forward, his own frame thrumming with the dual sensations of Starscream’s panic and the demanding presence before him. He took the head of Megatron’s spike into his mouth, the taste of ozone and raw power flooding his senses. His glossa swept along the underside, tracing a thick vein, and he hollowed his cheeks, applying a firm, sucking pressure.

Megatron’s groan was a low rumble of satisfaction. His hand came to rest on the back of Soundwave’s helm, not guiding, just possessing.

Inside the bond, Soundwave focused, channeling the rhythm of his glossa, the practiced suction, the sheer physical act of servitude into a steady stream for Starscream. He poured his own forced calm into it, a calculated lie of pleasure. This is normal. This is required. He felt the seeker’s confusion warp, slowly morphing into a hesitant, voyeuristic curiosity. The fear was being drowned out by the relentless, drug-enhanced need in Starscream’s own frame.

Soundwave’s own panel hissed open. He reached down, his fingers slipping easily into his own wet valve, already prepared from his earlier manipulations. He pumped two digits in and out, a show for Megatron and aSynchronize rhythm for Starscream. See? I am not only yours. You are not only mine. To survive, we do this. He pressed the thought into their connection, imbuing it with the sensation of his own building charge, a genuine reaction to his own touch that he knew Starscream would feel as keenly as his own.

Megatron’s hips gave a shallow thrust, his spike hitting the back of Soundwave’s intake. Soundwave relaxed his throat, taking him deeper, the act as familiar as battlefield tactics. He felt the telltale tension coiling in Megatron’s groin, the pulse of impending overload. He held still, swallowing rapidly as the warlord climaxed, the bitter, electric taste of transfluid filling his mouth. He swallowed every drop, a dutiful, empty gesture.

He rose, his fingers still working between his own legs, making a show of his readiness. He positioned the still-hard spike at his entrance, and in one smooth, practiced motion, sank down onto it.

A grunt was punched from his vocalizer. Megatron was… substantial. The stretch was immense, a familiar, almost painful fullness that quickly ignited into a deep, internal friction. Soundwave braced his hands on the broad shoulders of the throne and began to move, riding him with a steady, piston-like rhythm. He poured the sensation into the bond for Starscream—the feeling of being filled, the heat, the dull, thrilling ache of being stretched to capacity. This is what you must accept.

But Megatron grew bored. With a dismissive grunt and a powerful thrust of his own, he flipped their positions, slamming Soundwave onto his back on the cold floor. The air left Soundwave’s vents in a startled rush. Megaton loomed over him, pulling Soundwave’s legs up and apart. “Monotonous,” he growled, and then he was slamming back in, his pace instantly brutal, unforgiving.

The change was jarring, the pleasure sharpening into something edged with pain. Soundwave’s optics flickered. He wrapped his legs around Megatron’s waist, locking his pedes at the small of the warlord’s back, pulling him in, demanding he go even deeper, trying to reclaim some shred of control from the violation. Take it. All of it. He sent the chaotic mix of pain and piercing pleasure to Starscream, a desperate justification.

Megatron’s smile was a vicious slash of metal. “Yes. Just like the old days.” His thrusts became erratic, powerful, each one jolting Soundwave’s frame against the floor. He overloaded again with a roar, flooding Soundwave’s valve with another rush of transfluid. He pulled out, already gesturing for Soundwave to clean him. Soundwave obeyed, the act mechanical, his mind clinging to the bond.

And there, he felt it. A shift. A surrender. Starscream’s panic had finally been smothered, not by fear, but by the relentless, shared waves of sensation. The seeker’s emotional state had melted into a hazy, compliant warmth, mirroring the pleasure Soundwave had been forced to project. Soundwave sensed the seeker’s resignation, his decision. If this was what Soundwave did, if this was what he required, then Starscream would obey. The connection pulsed with a new intention, a dreadful acceptance.

In the quiet room, Starscream’s gaze fell upon the dark cube in Tarn’s hand. The seeker’s breathing, which had been fast and frightened, evened out. His low wings lifted a fraction, not in defiance, but in invitation. He reached for the cube.

Tarn’s optics glowed with satisfied anticipation. He did not move, simply watching as the tricolor seeker brought the cube to his lips. Starscream’s optics remained locked on Tarn’s as he tilted his head back and began to drink.

Chapter Text

The dark, syrupy energon slid down his intake, thick and cloying. Starscream’s optics fluttered, the world tilting for a moment before righting itself with a new, oppressive clarity. He felt Tarn’s massive hand tighten on the cube, tilting it further, forcing the last dregs down his throat. He choked, a sputter catching in his vents, but he managed to swallow it all.

A furnace ignited deep within his chassis. Heat, far more intense than any medicinal fire, bloomed in his core and radiated outwards, making his plating feel tight and overly sensitive. Through the fresh, thrumming connection to Soundwave, the knowledge flowed into him, calm and resigned. This was Shockwave’s design. The dark energon was a key, unlocking ancient seeker protocols, playback programs of loyalty and submission meant for a bondmate. And his bondmate… his bondmate was silently urging acceptance. It is acceptable. He is acceptable. The thought was not his own, but it felt as natural as his own coding. He stopped fighting. His frame, taut with panic, went pliant against the berth.

Tarn observed the change, his single optic burning with a predatory light. He discarded the empty cube, the clatter of it against the floor startlingly loud in the silent room. His massive hands, capable of such horrific violence, came up to cradle Starscream’s face. He removed his mask, setting it aside with a soft, deliberate click, revealing the grim, eager set of his mouth.

“There now,” Tarn murmured, and his voice was a physical thing. It wasn’t the flat, commanding bark of Megatron or the silent intensity of Soundwave. It was a rich, melodic baritone, a sweet command that vibrated through Starscream’s very spark, compelling obedience, promising dark pleasures. “See? All that fear for nothing.”

He leaned down, and his kiss was nothing like Soundwave’s tentative exploration. It was a conquest. His glossa invaded Starscream’s mouth, claiming every inch, tasting the bitter residue of the dark energon. One of his hands slid from the seeker’s jawline, tracing the sensitive edge of a wing. Starscream jolted at the contact, a sharp, startled gasp caught between their lips. Tarn exploited the moment, using his significant weight to press Starscream down into the soft berth, pinning him effortlessly. The sheer mass of him was overwhelming, a mountain of polished, deadly armor.

“Such a beautiful creature,” Tarn whispered against his lip components, his voice that hypnotic, honeyed weapon. “A work of art, left untouched for so long. What a waste.” His hand stroked the wing again, and Starscream couldn’t suppress a shiver of sensation that was part aversion, part awakening need. The programs, the bond, the drug—they were all rewiring him, convincing him this was where he belonged. Soundwave enjoys this. Soundwave allows this.

“Open for me, seeker,” Tarn commanded, the sweetness in his voice laced with undeniable authority.

Starscream’s body obeyed before his mind could form a protest. His panel retracted with a soft hiss, baring his shimmering, translucent blue valve to the cool air of the quarter. It pulsed with his sparkbeat, glistening with the first signs of lubricant, a betraying heat radiating from it.

Tarn didn’t tease. He didn’t explore with a gentle touch. He pushed two thick fingers into Starscream’s valve without preamble. Starscream’s back arched off the berth, a cry ripped from his vocalizer. It was a stretch, a delicious, shocking fullness that was so different from Soundwave’s careful preparation. Tarn’s fingers were broader, his touch more demanding. He crooked them, massaging internal nodes with a brutal, knowing efficiency that left Starscream seeing static.

“Yes…” Tarn growled, the sweet voice dropping into a gravelly register of pure hunger. “So responsive.”

He withdrew his fingers, the wet sound obscenely loud. His own panel retracted, and Starscream’s optics widened. Tarn’s spike was indeed massive, thicker and longer than Soundwave’s, and already pressurized to its full, intimidating length. It was a weapon, an instrument of pure domination.

Tarn didn’t guide himself. He didn’t ask. He simply positioned his hips and shoved forward, burying his entire length into Starscream’s valve in one relentless, unforgiving thrust.

Starscream screamed. The sound was a raw, ragged thing, torn from the very core of his being. It was a scream of overwhelm, of being split open, of exquisite, unbearable fullness. His valve stretched taut around the invasion, every sensor screaming in a riot of pleasure-pain. Tarn didn’t pause, didn’t give him a moment to adjust. He set a punishing rhythm immediately, each thrust a deep, powerful piston drive that slammed Starscream up the berth.

This was the opposite of Soundwave. Where Soundwave was controlled, Tarn was wild. Where Soundwave was precise, Tarn was crude, operating on pure, raw instinct. And Starscream’s traitorous frame loved it. The dark energon and the spark bond amplified every sensation, transmuting what should have been agony into blinding, shocking pleasure. Tarn hammered into depths Soundwave had never reached, striking a deep, internal node with every brutal stroke that made Starscream’s vision whiten at the edges.

“More!" Starscream heard himself beg, his voice a broken, high-pitched whine. His claws scrabbled against Tarn’s broad back, not to push him away, but to pull him closer, to anchor himself against the devastating onslaught.

Tarn’s laughter was a dark, rich rumble against his neck. “I know,” he purred, his sweet voice returning, a vile contrast to the savage rhythm of his hips. “I can feel it. You’re so tight. So perfect. You were made for this.” He leaned down, his lip components brushing Starscream’s audio receptor. “And I’m going to take my time. Twenty days… I’m going to enjoy every last moment of you.”

He changed his angle slightly, and Starscream cried out as the new pressure sent a lightning bolt of charge straight to his spark. Tarn was everywhere, his weight, his scent, his overwhelming presence, and the relentless, thick slide of him inside, filling him utterly. The bond thrummed with a confusing mix of Soundwave’s distant, resigned observation and Starscream’s own crashing, shameful, all-consuming ecstasy. He was losing himself, piece by piece, to the crushing depth of every thrust.

The berth groaned in protest, a rhythmic, metallic complaint that underscored Tarn’s savage tempo. He was a force of nature, a quake of plating and power, and Starscream was simply the ground breaking beneath him. His massive spike pistoned in and out, a brutal, unrelenting invasion that stretched the seeker’s valve to its absolute limit. Where Soundwave’s possession had been a claiming, Tarn’s was a demolition.

Starscream’s optics flickered, his systems screaming. But the dark energon coursing through his lines and the insistent, humming thrum of the forced bond transmuted the pain into something else, something horrifyingly addictive. A sharp, electric jolt of pleasure erupted from a place deep inside him, a node he hadn't known existed, struck with devastating accuracy by Tarn’s girth.

His back arched off the berth, a broken, wordless cry tearing from his vocalizer as his entire frame seized. Charge crackled over his plating, his valve clenching in a violent, uncontrollable overload around the massive spike still ruthlessly moving within him. Transfluid spilled from his own valve, mixing with the copious lubricant Tarn’s assault was forcing his frame to produce.

Tarn grunted, a low, satisfied sound. The sudden, intense constriction around his spike was too much. With a final, deep thrust that pressed Starscream flat into the berth, he stilled, his own overload crashing through him. Starscream could feel the hot, thick rush of transfluid filling him, a flood that seemed to have no end, a claiming far more visceral than any sparkbond.

For a single, blissful moment, there was stillness. The only sound was the frantic whir of their cooling fans and the drip of fluids onto the floor.

Then Tarn moved. He pulled out of Starscream with a wet, slick sound that made the seeker shudder. The sudden emptiness was a void, a shocking loss of pressure and heat. Tarn sat up on the edge of the berth, his massive frame still humming with energy. He looked down at Starscream, who lay limp and trembling, a mess of fluids and overheated plating.

“Clean me,” Tarn commanded, his voice that deceptively smooth, melodic baritone. It was an order, simple and absolute.

The compulsion from the dark energon was instantaneous. Starscream’s body moved before his mind could form a protest. He pushed himself up, his movements slow, unsteady. Transfluid, both his and Tarn’s, leaked from his valve and down his thighs as he shifted. He knelt on the berth beside Tarn, his gaze fixed on the mech’s spike, which was still pressurized, glistening with their mixed fluids.

He reached out a trembling hand, wrapping his digits around the base. Tarn was still so… big. Even soft, he would be formidable. Like this, he was monstrous. Starslean leaned forward, his glossa flicking out to tentatively taste the mixture of transfluid and lubricant beading at the tip. The flavor was metallic, sharp, and undeniably Tarn.

A low moan vibrated in Tarn’s chassis, encouraging him. Starscream’s hesitation evaporated, replaced by a driving, chemical need to obey, to please. He opened his mouth, running his glossa along the length of the spike, cleaning it with broad, languid strokes. He worshiped every ridge, every cable, lapping up every last drop of evidence from their joining until the spike gleamed under the med-bay lights.

Tarn watched him, his red optics burning with possessive intensity. “Good,” he purred. “Now, put it back. I’m not finished with you.”

Starscream’s valve clenched at the empty air, a fresh wave of lubricant slicking his inner folds at the mere command. He guided Tarn’s spike with his hand, positioning himself above it. He lowered himself slowly, the broad head stretching him open once more. A gasp hitched in his intake. It was just as overwhelming the second time.

Then, with a sudden, desperate motion, he let his full weight drop, sheathing Tarn entirely in one swift, shocking movement. The air left his vents in a pained, pleasured rush. He was so full, stretched to the point of burning, the deep internal node already screaming in anticipation.

His hands braced on Tarn’s broad chest plates, he began to move, rocking his hips, riding him. It was a clumsy, desperate rhythm at first, but Tarn’s hands snapped up to grip his hips, his claws digging in just enough to sting. Tarn took over, controlling his pace, slamming him down onto his spike with a force that stole Starscream’s reason.

“Yesss,” Tarn hissed, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “Take it. You were built for this, seeker. Built to be filled.”

Each powerful lift and drop sent jolts of blinding pleasure through Starscream’s frame. He could feel the thick, heavy length of Tarn moving inside him, rubbing against every sensor, reaching depths that made his spark spin wildly in its chamber. His moans became a continuous, high-pitched stream, his optics offlined, lost to the brutal, perfect rhythm.

*

Far away, in the silence of his quarters, Soundwave lay on his berth. One hand was pressed firmly against his own valve, fingers thrusting in a steady rhythm that mimicked the ghost of a memory. The other was wrapped around his spike, stroking in time with the sensations flooding their bond.

He could feel it all. The crushing depth of Tarn’s spike. The burning stretch. The shocking, shameful bliss that Starscream was drowning in. It was a feedback loop of agony and ecstasy. Every cry that tore from Starscream’s vocalizer was a vibration along Soundwave’s own neural net. Every one of Tarn’s brutal thrusts was a phantom pressure against his own array.

His vents hitched. His frame trembled. He was a voyeur to his own conjunx’s violation, and his own frame betrayed him by reacting, by enjoying it. Through the bond, a silent, desperate thought, more feeling than word, flowed from him to Starscream: More. Move faster. Take all of him.

He encouraged the seeker’s movements, feeding the dark need, sharing in the degrading pleasure. His own overload began to build, coiling tight in his tank, syncing perfectly with the crescendo he felt building in Starscream. He wondered, his processor hazy with lust, when he would get to have the seeker again for himself. When he could reclaim what was his.

Back in the laboratory quarter, Tarn’s grip on Starscream’s hips tightened, his thrusts becoming sharper, more erratic. “That’s it,” he growled, his voice thick with static. “Now… overload for me again.”

The words were a struggle, each syllable a heavy weight forced through a haze of static and overwhelming sensation. “I… I can’t… another overload so… s-so soon…” Starscream managed, his voice a thin, reedy whisper.

Tarn’s single optic flashed with cold amusement. He did not like to hear that. With a brutal, effortless shove, he forced the seeker flat onto his back on the berth, his massive frame coming down like a landslide, pinning Starscream completely. The air rushed from Starscream’s vents in a choked gasp. Tarn seized one of the seeker’s slender legs, hooked it over his broad shoulder, and—without a word, without a moment of preparation—drove back into him.

This was different. Deeper. Stronger. An invasion that stole the very concept of thought from Starscream’s processor. His valve, already sensitized and stretched, was penetrated with a merciless, piston-like rhythm that offered no quarter. Each thrust was a claim, a punishment, a branding.

“Your inability is irrelevant,” Tarn’s voice was a low, gravelly hum that vibrated through their joined frames. “You will lose consciousness. I will continue. You will reboot. I will still be here, buried inside you. Again. And again. And again.” He punctuated each word with a devastating plunge of his hips, the sound of metal on metal a wet, rhythmic slap that filled the sterile room. “I will fill your tanks so utterly with my transfluid that the very idea of energon will revolt you. You will be satisfied by this alone. By me.”

The tone was absolute. It was not a threat; it was a statement of fact. A decree. And somewhere, buried under the searing pain and the terrifying loss of control, a twisted wire in Starscream’s psyche short-circuited with raw, undiluted voltage.

He liked it.

The sheer, brutal dominance of a mech so much more powerful than himself… it sent a shockwave of pure energy through his systems. His back arched off the berth, not in fight, but in total, surrendering ecstasy. A scream, torn from the very core of his being, was not one of agony but of revelation. His valve clenched, convulsing around the massive intrusion, and another overload, shocking in its intensity and swiftness, detonated within him. White light flashed behind his optics.

In a observation room, cold and clinical, Shockwave’s single optic narrowed. His data-pad chirped softly as he entered a new notation. `Subject exhibits pronounced, possibly inherent, predisposition for submissive response to overwhelming physical dominance. Hypothesis: chemical coercion may be unnecessary for successful bonding protocol with a sufficiently authoritative partner. The seeker’s frame is wired for surrender.`

He sent a tight-beam comm to Megatron. ::The Tarn method is proving… highly efficient. Preliminary data suggests a pure, force-based domination strategy may yield the desired result for your own bonding. No medications required. Only strength.::

A low, pleased rumble echoed from Megatron’s chamber. He could barely wait for his turn.

Back in, Starscream was floating in a sea of static. His world had narrowed to the crushing weight on top of him, the brutal, unending rhythm pounding him into the berth, and the searing-hot fullness that was reshaping him from the inside out. Tarn gave him no reprieve. As the last tremors of the overload wracked Starscream’s frame, Tarn simply adjusted his angle, lifted the seeker’s hips higher, and delved even deeper.

Starscream’s moan was a broken, continuous thing. His hands scrambled for purchase, finding only the smooth, cold surface of the berth. He was utterly exposed, utterly used, and his frame was singing a chorus of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.
Through the fractured, bleeding edge of their bond, a wave of conflicted heat crashed into Soundwave. He was leaning against a wall inhis quarters, one hand pressed to his own array, his visor dark. He felt the devastating stretch, the shameless, screaming pleasure that Tarn was wringing from his conjunx. A fresh wave of the seeker’s overload echoed through his own wiring, and his knees nearly buckled. His own valve panel sparked with sympathetic charge. The jealousy was a sharp, acidic burn in his fuel lines, but it was inextricably tangled with a dark, voyeuristic thrill.

He fed that thrill back down the bond, a silent, treacherous whisper of encouragement. ::Yes… like that. So good for him. You take it so well.::

Tarn’s pace became animalistic, a frenzied, driving rhythm aimed at only one goal. His heavy groaning filled the air, a counterpoint to the wet, slick sounds of their joining. One of his large hands splayed across Starscream’s trembling abdomen, pressing down, making the seeker feel the impossible depth of every thrust.

“You see?” Tarn growled, his voice thick with his own impending climax. “Your body knows what it needs. It does not lie. It begs for this.”

Starscream could only whimper, a high-pitched, desperate sound. He was entirely at the mercy of the sensations, of the dark energon singing in his veins, of the bond that tethered him to a mech who was drinking in his degradation. He was a vessel, and Tarn was filling him to the brim.

Tarn’s transformation seams began to glow a fierce, hot red. His grip on Starscream’s hip tightened to the point of denting the delicate armor. “Now,” he commanded, the word a guttural burst of static. “You will overload with me. You will feel me claim every inch of you. Now, Seeker!”

The order was absolute. It short-circuited Starscream’s last shred of resistance. His optics flew wide, his mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ as a third, cataclysmic overload was ripped from him, his entire frame seizing, his valve clamping down on Tarn’s spike in a vice-like ripple.

With a roar that shook the very walls, Tarn followed him over the edge, his own release a torrent of scalding transfluid that flooded Starscream’s depths, just as he had promised. It was an endless, pumping heat that made Starscream’s tanks feel impossibly full, stretched and satisfied in a way energon never could.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of harsh venting and the slow, wet drip of fluids. Tarn remained buried within him, his massive frame still shuddering with the aftershocks. Starscream lay beneath him, utterly spent, optics dim and unfocused. A single, thin trail of lubricant and transfluid leaked from the corner of his mouth.

Tarn shifted his weight, looking down at the wrecked seeker beneath him. He ran a surprisingly gentle thumb over Starscream’s smudged lip. “See?” he murmured, his voice now a low, possessive purr. “I told you. You didn’t need to speak. Your body did all the talking for you.” He leaned down, his lipplates hovering just above Starscream’s audio. “And it’s not nearly done yet.”

The heavy silence of the aftermath was shattered by the sharp, measured cadence of footsteps on quarters floor. Tarn didn’t move from his position, still half-draped over the blissfully wrecked seeker beneath him, but his helm tilted just enough to track the new presence

The heavy silence of the aftermath was shattered by the sharp, measured cadence of footsteps on the med-bay floor. Tarn didn’t move from his position, still half-draped over the blissfully wrecked seeker beneath him, but his helm tilted just enough to track the new presence.

Shockwave stood at a respectful distance, his single optic glowing with clinical interest. “A satisfactory display of compliance,” the scientist stated, his voice a monotone devoid of judgment or praise. It was merely an observation. “However, the current parameters rely heavily on post-overload endorphins and the lingering effects of the dark energon. The drop will be… significant.”

Tarn’s engine gave a low, warning grumble. “Get to your point, Shockwave.”

“My point is efficiency,” Shockwave replied, stepping closer. He held up a data-pad in one hand and a small, unmarked vial filled with a faintly shimmering violet liquid in the other. “I have synthesized a new compound. It is designed not to force compliance, but to enhance the existing neural pathways associated with pleasure and submission. It will amplify sensation to an unprecedented degree, making his frame… acutely receptive. He will not simply obey. He will crave.”

A low, intrigued sound rumbled in Tarn’s chest. He finally shifted, pulling his spike from Starscream’s well-used valve with a wet, slick sound that made the seeker beneath him whimper faintly at the sudden emptiness. Tarn took the vial, holding it up to the light. “And the side effects?”

“A temporary but intense increase in libidinal programming. His entire sensory net will become hyper-focused on achieving penetration and fulfillment. He will believe it is his own idea.” Shockwave’s optic flickered. “It is, in essence, the perfect tool for your purposes.”

Tarn’s lipplates curved into a dark smile. He looked down at Starscream, who was blinking slowly, his systems struggling to reboot after the brutal overloads. “You hear that, little seeker? A treat, just for you.” He uncorked the vial. The scent that wafted out was oddly sweet, cloying. “Open up.”

Starscream’s optics were hazy, but a flicker of his old defiance sparked within them. His lips remained sealed.

Tarn’s patience was paper-thin. He pinched Starscream’s nose guards, cutting off his venting. The seeker struggled for a moment, his frame bucking weakly, before instinct forced his mouth to open for a gasp of air. Tarn was ready. He tipped the entire contents of the vial into Starscream’s mouth.

Starscream choked, a strangled sound catching in his throat as he was forced to swallow. The liquid was warm, and it burned a path down his intake, spreading through his lines like wildfire.

For a moment, nothing happened. Starscream lay there, panting, a trickle of the violet fluid staining his chin. Then, a tremor started deep within his chassis. It was a tiny vibration at first, a faint hum that quickly escalated into a full-frame shudder. His optics, which had been dim, suddenly blazed to life, burning with a new, desperate light.

Heat. It was the first and only coherent thought. A furnace ignited in his core, blazing outwards until every cable, every wire, every inch of his plating felt like it was glowing. It was nothing like the dark energon’s cold command. This was pure, undiluted need. It sang in his veins, a relentless, pounding rhythm that demanded satisfaction.

His valve, already sensitive and throbbing from Tarn’s use, clenched around nothing, a fresh wave of lubricant slicking his thighs. The empty feeling was suddenly agony. An ache so profound it felt like his spark would sputter out if it wasn’t filled. Now. Now. Now.

“Mmmph… nnngh…” The sounds escaping him were no longer whimpers of protest, but raw, guttural pleas. He arched his back off the berth, his wings fluttering in a frantic, uncontrolled rhythm. His hands, which had been lying limp at his sides, scrabbled at his own plating, claws scoring faint lines down his abdomen as if he could tear the need out of himself.

He turned his helm, his gaze locking onto Tarn’s massive spike, still glistening with their mixed fluids. His glossa darted out, wetting his lips. Spike. I need it. I need to be filled. The thought was primal, all-consuming.

“P…please…” The word was a broken, rasping thing, torn from a throat that felt scorched. He was beyond pride, beyond strategy, reduced to a single, devastating biological imperative. His hips began to move in a slow, sinuous roll against the air, seeking friction, seeking pressure, seeking anything to quell the inferno inside him.

Tarn watched, his own engine revving with dark satisfaction. He placed a heavy hand on Starscream’s thigh, his thumb stroking the sensitive joint there. The seeker jolted as if electrocuted, a sharp, wanton cry bursting from him. His valve pulsed visibly, a fresh rush of lubricant soaking the berth beneath him.

“Please what, Starscream?” Tarn’s voice was a low, teasing purr. “Use your words.”

Starscream’s optics were wide, pupils dilated with pure want. He was panting, his vents heaving. “Spike! Please, I need… I need a spike! Your spike!” The admission was ripped from him, loud and desperate. He reached for Tarn, his movements clumsy and frantic. “Now! Frag me, please, I can’t… I can’t stand it!”

The chemical need was a physical pain, a hollow, yawning void inside him that screamed to be stuffed full, to be stretched and used until this unbearable sensitivity found its release. He was shaking with it, his entire world narrowing to the space between his legs and the powerful mech standing over him.

Tarn chuckled, the sound dark and rich with victory. He leaned forward, his own arousal now fully renewed, and positioned himself at Starscream’s dripping, fluttering entrance. “Since you asked so nicely…”

Shockwave goes out, those two were not over and he didn't want to watch it because he had datas to see and Shockwave goes back to work.

Chapter Text

Tarn did not need a second invitation. With a guttural growl of pure dominance, he drove into Starscream with a single, brutal thrust that slammed the seeker’s frame back against the medical berth. A ragged, punched-out scream was torn from Starscream’s vocalizer, his back arching sharply off the surface as the overwhelming stretch and friction sent a devastating shockwave of sensation through his entire nervous system.

“Yes! Oh, yes!” Starscream wailed, his claws scrambling for purchase on Tarn’s broad chest plates, leaving faint scratches in their wake. His optics were wide, unseeing, lost in a haze of chemical need and raw, physical overload.

Tarn set a punishing, relentless rhythm, each powerful snap of his hips a claim, a punishment, and a reward all at once. The wet, slick sound of their joining filled the sterile room, a lewd counterpoint to Starscream’s broken cries and Tarn’s own heavy venting. Starscream could feel every ridge, every subtle texture of Tarn’s spike as it pistoned in and out of his valve, which clutched and fluttered around the invader, trying to milk it despite the sheer, overwhelming force of the act. His internal sensors were on fire, each nerve ending screaming with a pleasure so intense it blurred the line into agony.

He was full. So utterly, completely full. The hollow, aching need the compound had created was being ruthlessly filled, stretched, and exploited. He could feel the heavy weight of Tarn atop him, pinning him, the heat of the larger mech’s frame searing into his own. And beneath it all, a second, ghostly layer of sensation hummed through his very spark—the distant, aching thrum of Soundwave’s own self-pleasure, a mirror of his own torment that amplified every single sensation tenfold.

“You feel that, seeker?” Tarn grunted, his voice a strained, staticky rumble from the effort of his thrusts. “That’s all me. I am what is ruining you for anyone else.”

Starscream could only nod frantically, a strangled sob catching in his throat as Tarn adjusted his angle, striking a cluster of internal sensors with devastating accuracy. White-hot lightning,so different like the blue one from Soundwave. His vision fritzed, static dancing at the edges. His valve clamped down in a vice-like grip, and with a scream that was half-Tarn’s name, half-nonsense, he overloaded. His whole body convulsed,transfixed by the brutal, unforgiving pleasure, his spinal strut bowing as charge ricocheted through him.

Tarn rode out the powerful contractions with a deep, satisfied groan, never once slowing his brutal pace. “Again,” he commanded, his voice dropping into a lower, more resonant register that seemed to vibrate through Starscream’s very spark.

And Starscream did. Another overload, smaller but no less intense, wracked his frame almost immediately, leaving him trembling and gasping, his systems screaming in protest. The dual input—Tarn’s physical domination and the persistent, erotic echo of Soundwave’s distant touch through their bond—was too much. His optics flickered. A systems warning flashed across his HUD, ignored. His world began to dim, the sensations becoming a distant roar as his overwhelmed processor initiated an emergency shutdown.

He could feel Soundwave’s own climax building, a resonant pressure in his own spark, a final, exquisite torture…

And then, nothing. His body went limp beneath Tarn, slipping into a forced, deep recharge. The last thing he registered was the sudden, unsatisfying emptiness as Tarn withdrew, his spike still hardened and demanding.

In the laboratory, Shockwave observed the data streams on his secondary monitor with clinical interest. The vital signs for both mechs scrolled rapidly. Tarn’s spark signature was a chaotic mess of rapid, aggressive pulses, a visual representation of deep-seated insecurity violently masked by a thirst for absolute power. Starscream’s, before it had flatlined into recharge, had been a frantic, fluttering thing trying desperately to sync with the chaos, the medications only allowing it to get so close.

“Fascinating,” Shockwave murmured to himself, his single optic blinking. The synchronization was taking longer than his models had predicted. Tarn’s unique… instability… was a significant variable he had not fully accounted for. The power of his voice, the way it could command not just the body but influence the spark itself, was the key. He needed more data.

He watched as Tarn stood over the inert seeker, a flicker of frustration in his field at being denied his own finish. A message blinked onto Shockwave’s console, and he swiftly typed a response, his digits tapping efficiently on the keypad.

Tarn’s comm link buzzed with an incoming priority message. He read it, his frame still humming with unmet charge.

Tarn’s comm link buzzed, a sharp intrusion into the tense atmosphere of the med-bay. He read the message, a flicker of annoyance at the interruption quickly replaced by a slow, predatory smile. Incompatible. The word was a challenge. But the solution… the solution was a gift.

For a long time, Tarn had wanted this. To use the full, unfiltered power of his voice not just to command, but to claim. To rewrite the seeker’s very will. He looked down at Starscream’s prone form, the seeker’s systems still cycling down from the last series of brutal overloads. His optics were offline, his frame shuddering with residual energy.

Tarn leaned down, his massive frame dwarfing the seeker. He didn't shout. He didn't need to. He changed the very composition of his voice, smoothing its harsh edges into something deceptively soft, a sweet and inevitable melody woven with absolute authority. He whispered directly into Starscream’s audio receptor, the sound vibrating through the delicate metal.

“Awaken, Starscream.”

The effect was immediate. The seeker’s optics flickered online, their usual sharp red now a clouded, hazy blue from the sparkbond with Soundwave. But a new layer of glossiness shimmered over them now, a clear sign that Tarn’s power was taking root, seeping past physical sensors and into his processor.

“There you are,” Tarn crooned, the melodic command lacing every syllable. “You are so perfect like this. So receptive.”

Starscream’s helm lolled to the side, a soft, confused whimper escaping his lips. His field, usually a spiky, defensive thing, was now pliant and open, reaching weakly for the source of the compelling sound.

“You want to be good for me, don’t you?” Tarn whispered, his lips grazing the seeker’s finial. “You want to show me how beautiful you can be.”

A shudder wracked Starscream’s frame. His vocalizer produced a static-laced keen of assent. “Y-yes…”

“Then show me,” Tarn commanded, the melody in his voice deepening, becoming a physical pressure. “Open for me. Let me see what is mine.”

Without hesitation, Starscream’s trembling hands moved down his own frame. His optics were distant, locked on some internal point commanded by Tarn’s voice. His fingers, elegant and sharp, hooked against his own valve plating and pulled. The panels retracted with a soft click-hiss.

Tarn’s intake hitched. The sight was obscenely beautiful. The seeker’s valve was a soft, glistening pink, its biolights pulsing a faint, desperate blue. It was painted with the evidence of their previous union, Tarn’s own white transfluid stark against the rosy mesh. The delicate calipers fluttered anxiously, dripping withNature lubricant and arousal.

Tarn’s own spike, already pressurized and neglected, gave a painful throb. A bead of pre-fluid welled at its tip, gleaming under the med-bay lights. He didn’t wait. The order was given, the permission was visually, audibly granted. He positioned himself, the broad, blunt head of his spike nudging against the sensitive, parted lips of Starscream’s valve.

Starscream gasped, his back arching off the berth as the sensation crashed through him. It was overwhelming, a mix of stretch and heat and the terrifying, compelling rightness of Tarn’s command. His optics flew wide, the clouded blue swirling with panic for a nanosecond before Tarn’s voice washed over him again.

“You accept this,” Tarn murmured, the command not a question but a fact he was etching into Starscream’s spark. “You accept me. You want me. You need this connection.”

The panic dissolved, replaced by a deep, resonant thrum of submission. Starscream’s body went lax beneath him, his wings pressing flat against the berth in ultimate surrender. A broken, yearning sound was his only reply.

It was all the invitation Tarn needed. With a single, powerful thrust of his hips, he sheathed himself fully inside the seeker.

Starscream’s cry was muffled against Tarn’s chest plating, a sound of pure, unfiltered sensation. The stretch was immense, filling him completely, the textured ridges of Tarn’s spike dragging against every hyper-sensitive node within his valve. The pain was there, a sharp edge, but it was instantly vaporized by the overwhelming wave of pleasure that followed, a pleasure mandated and amplified by the irresistible command echoing in his processor.

Tarn did not pause. He set a relentless, brutal rhythm, each powerful surge driving the air from Starscream’s intakes. The seeker could only cling to him, his claws scraping against Tarn’s broad back as he was utterly conquered, his world narrowing to the pounding cadence and the honey-sweet voice in his audial.

“You feel so good around me,” Tarn growled, the melody in his voice fracturing into raw, possessive grit. “So tight. So perfect. You were made for this. To be filled. To be claimed.”

Each word was a brand. Each thrust was a punctuation mark. Starscream could feel his own charge building with terrifying speed, a coiling tension in his core that was fed by the physical friction and the psychic weight of Tarn’s domination. His valve clenched rhythmically, trying to milk the spike that was ruthlessly pistoning in and out of him.

Tarn shifted his angle slightly, and the head of his spike dragged directly over Starscream’s main sensor node.

The seeker screamed, his frame bowing off the table. White light crackled behind his shuttered optics. He was tipping over the edge, his systems screaming towards an overload he wasn’t sure he could survive.

“Not yet,” Tarn commanded, his voice a lash of control that slammed into Starscream’s spark. The order was a circuit breaker, forcibly halting the cascade of sensation mere nanoseconds from its peak.

Starscream sobbed, the denial a physical agony. He was strung taut, vibrating with unmet need, his valve clenching frantically around the intrusion.

Tarn laughed, a low, dark sound of pure power. He slowed his pace to a maddening, shallow grind, each tiny movement an exquisite torture. “You overload when I allow it. You are mine to command. Mine to pleasure. You will accept me as your second. Your spark will bond to mine. Say it.”

He punctuated the order with a sharp, deep thrust that stole the seeker’s breath.

The words were pulled from Starscream’s vocalizer, torn from him by a will greater than his own. “I… I accept you…” he gasped, the plea a ragged thread of sound.

The acknowledgement, torn from him in a moment of exquisite weakness, seemed to unlock something deeper within Starscream’s very code. A low, resonant hum filled the space between their frames, a tangible energy that made the air crackle. It was the spark resonance Shockwave was monitoring.

In his observation chamber, the scientist’s single optic brightened with intense focus. Fascinating. The spark pulses are attempting to synchronize. The acceptance protocol is initiating a deeper bond. His long, slender fingers danced across a console, logging the flood of new data. A quick, efficient message flashed across Tarn’s internal HUD: `Continue current parameters. Prolonged exposure required for full synchronization. He is yours to command. Make him crave the bond.`

A dark, possessive thrill shot through Tarn’s circuitry. He would indeed enjoy every moment of his tenure. He would map every inch of the seeker’s frame, exploit every vulnerability, and command every imaginable position until Starscream’s very spark ached for his.

Speaking of which, the berth was becoming tedious.

With a powerful, sudden shift of his weight, Tarn pulled out of the twitching, overheated valve. Starscream whined at the loss, a pathetic, empty sound that pleased Tarn immensely. “Enough of this,” Tarn’s voice was a low rumble, devoid of the vocal modulator’s power yet still heavy with command. “Hold on to me.”

Dazed, obedient, Starscream’s arms rose to loop weakly around Tarn’s broad neck. His legs, shaky and uncertain, wrapped around the massive waist, his own weight now fully suspended in Tarn’s unyielding grasp. Tarn stood from the berth in one formidable motion, the seeker clinging to him like sparkling. He carried Starscream across the med-bay and without a hint of strain, pinned him firmly against a cool, solid wall.

The stark temperature difference on his heated backplates made Starscream gasp. He was completely exposed, utterly vulnerable, his valve throbbing and exposed to the chilled air. And then Tarn was sheathed inside him again in one brutal, penetrating thrust that drove the air from Starscream’s intakes. “Ungh!”

Tarn began to move, his pace a relentless, pounding rhythm that was amplified by the unyielding surface at Starscream’s back. Each powerful surge forward smashed the seeker into the wall, a dual sensation of hard, unforgiving metal and the overwhelming fullness of Tarn’s spike. Starscream’s world narrowed to the point of their joining, to the deep, grinding friction that was rapidly burning away the last of his coherent thought.

“You see how well you take me like this?” Tarn growled into his audio receptor, his voice dropping into that docile, intimate register that seemed to bypass all of Starscream’s defenses and speak directly to his spark. “Pinned and helpless. Exactly where you belong.” He drove his point home with another devastating thrust. “You want more of this, don’t you? You want more of my spike buried inside you.”

Starscream could only nod frantically, his forehead resting against Tarn’s shoulder, his vents heaving. The words were a compulsion in themselves, layering atop the physical domination, weaving a web of submission he no longer had the will to fight.

“Tell me,” Tarn commanded, his pace never faltering, each movement a calculated act of possession. He leaned back slightly, just enough to watch the seeker’s face, to see the desperate need etched into his sharp features. “Tell me you accept this. Tell me you accept me.”

The pressure was building again, a coiled, white-hot tension deep in his core, fed by the brutal rhythm and the hypnotic power of Tarn’s voice. Starscream felt his valve clench tightly, impossibly, around the invading spike, each ripple of his inner calipers a plea for the peak that was just out of reach.

“I… I accept…” Starscream choked out, the words a ragged sob.

“You accept what?” Tarn insisted, his voice hardening just a fraction, a subtle threat lacing the edges of the question. He slowed his thrusts, drawing the pleasure out into a tormenting, shallow grind that made Starscream writhe against the wall.

The denial was agony. Starscream’s optics were wide, glazed with unshed lubricant and raw, untamed need. He could feel the ghost of Soundwave’s distant, empathetic pleasure echoing at the edge of his consciousness, a secondary vibration that only heightened his own desperation. He was caught between two powerful forces, and he was breaking.

“I accept you!” he cried out, the confession ripped from him. “I accept you as my second! My sparkbound! Please!”

A low, victorious sound rumbled in Tarn’s chest. He rewarded the admission instantly, surging forward with his full, devastating strength, pistoning into the seeker with a force that rattled both their frames against the wall. The change in angle was exquisite, the head of his spike grinding against a cluster of internal sensor nodes Starscream hadn’t known existed.

Starscream’s back arched, his claws scrambling for purchase on Tarn’s broad shoulders. A broken scream was torn from his vocalizer as the world dissolved into a supernova of sensation. His overload crashed over him, violent and all-consuming, his valve convulsing in a frantic, milking rhythm around the spike that filled him. His biolights flashed erratically, casting wild, strobe-like shadows across the room.

Through the blinding haze, he felt Tarn’s own release, a hot, pulsing flood that seemed to sear him from the inside, a claiming. Tarn’s roar of completion was a physical thing, vibrating through Starscream’s entire frame.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged venting, of cooling metal clicking, and the faint, wet sounds of their joining. Starscream hung limply in his grasp, utterly spent, his systems rebooting from the sensory onslaught.

Tarn didn’t move, keeping them locked together, pressed against the wall. He nuzzled the side of Starscream’s helm, his voice a soft, possessive purr that promised this was only the beginning. “Good. Very good, my seeker. Now, let’s see how many more times we can make you say it before the cycle is through.”

Chapter Text

The final, crushing fullness of Megatron’s spike was a brand, searing its shape into his very being. Starscream lay pinned beneath the warlord’s immense weight, his face pressed into the cold med-berth, his valve stretched to a breathtaking, impossible limit. Every shallow, controlled thrust was a punctuation mark on a sentence of absolute ownership. He could feel the aftershocks of his own brutal overload still shuddering through his frame, a cataclysm that had left him hollowed out and strangely, terribly pliant.

Megatron shifted his weight, the movement a deliberate grind that made Starscream gasp. The warlord’s spark energy, a constant, burning crimson sun, held his own captive, its dominant frequency slowly burning away the lingering echoes of Soundwave’s cobalt calm and Tarn’s violent crimson. It was a psychic annexation, as total as the physical one.

“You see now, do you not?” Megatron’s voice was a low, satisfied rumble against his back, vibrating through his plating. “You are a vessel. Your purpose is to be filled. To be used. And I have accepted the privilege of being your primary architect.”

A fresh wave of lubricant slicked Starscream’s inner walls at the words, a humiliating, involuntary response. His valve fluttered weakly around the monstrous girth still buried within him, a pathetic attempt to milk a spike that showed no signs of softening. Megatron chuckled, the sound dark and knowing.

“Your frame knows its master. It’s that clever little biology of yours, isn’t it? The part of you that wants to be bred.” He emphasized the word with a slow, deep roll of his hips that forced a broken whimper from Starscream’s vocalizer. “Shockwave’s concoctions merely… encourage what your frame already craves. But I… I do not need such crutches.”

The door to the lab hissed open. Starscream, his helm turned to the side, saw them enter. Soundwave stood rigid, his visor a blank, dark slate, but his field, even at this distance, was a churning storm of possessive heat and silent fury. Tarn was more overt, his single optic blazing with a dark, voyeuristic hunger, his gaze fastened on where Megatron was joined to the seeker. The air grew thick with unspoken power dynamics.

“Watch,” Megatron commanded, his voice losing its intimate tone and becoming the voice of a commander on a battlefield. “Watch how a true master breaks in a new tool.”

He began to move again, and this time, it was different. Gone was the imperial, measured rhythm. This was pure, unadulterated fury. A brutal, piston-fast pounding that slammed Starscream into the berth with jackhammer force. The shock of the change was electrifying. Starscream cried out, a raw, shredded sound, as the pleasure-pantipain sharpened into something unbearably intense. His claws scrambled for purchase on the smooth metal, finding none.

“Yes!” Tarn’s voice was a low, eager growl from the sidelines. “See how he takes it. See how his frame yields.”

Soundwave said nothing, but Starscream felt the jolt of a phantom spike through their bond, a shared sensation of being ruthlessly filled. It was a dual assault, physical and psychic, and it shattered the last of his coherence.

Megatron’s thrusts became erratic, powerful, each one a testament to his savage strength. He was a force of nature, and Starscream was simply the shore he was eroding. The warlord’s large hands gripped his hip struts, holding him in place, using him as nothing more than a living, warm sheath for his pleasure.

“His valve is clenching,” Shockwave observed, his clinical monotone a stark contrast to the lewd, wet sounds of the interface. “A remarkable physiological response. It appears the visual and psychological stimuli of an audience further enhances his receptivity.”

They’re all watching, Starscream thought, the humiliation a hot flush across his spark. Soundwave sees this. Tarn sees this. They see me like this… And yet, the shame curled into the heat in his tank, feeding it, making the coil of his next overload draw taut with shocking speed. His valve convulsed around Megatron’s spike, a desperate, rhythmic clenching that was met with a guttural roar of approval from above him.

“He overloads from the degradation itself,” Megatron grunted, never slowing his devastating pace. “His ambition has always been his weakness. Now, it is the key to his ultimate function.”

The orgasm that ripped through Starscream was silent, a wave of pure, white-hot voltage that locked his vocalizer and made his vision strobe. He shook violently, his valve milking Megatron’s spike with a strength that felt like it would tear him apart. Through the haze, he felt the powerful, pulsing heat of the warlord’s own release, a scalding flood that filled him to overflowing, a claiming far more visceral than any sparkbond.

Megatron stayed buried within him for a long moment, his weight a crushing, possessive anchor. Finally, he pulled out with a wet, slick sound that echoed in the silent room. Transfluid, warm and plentiful, immediately began to leak from Starscream’s well-used valve, dripping down his thighs onto the berth.

The warlord turned, presenting his glistening, still-hard spike to the room. His optics locked first on Soundwave.

“Soundwave. Clean your lord. And your bondmate’s taste from my spike.”

Soundwave moved without hesitation. He knelt, his movements precise and reverent, and took Megatron into his mouth. The act was one of absolute submission, but his visor remained fixed on Starscream’s prone form, and through their bond poured a torrent of dark, possessive pride. Mine. He fills you, but you are still mine. This pleases me.

When he was done, Megatron turned to Tarn, a cruel smile playing on his lip components. “Your turn, Tarn. Lick him clean. I want him spotless for the next round. Let him feel your glossa on his most sensitive parts while he’s still dripping with me.”

Starscream’s vents hitched, his optics struggling to focus as Tarn’s masked face descended. The heavy, rounded shape of the voice modulator brushed against his thigh, a cold, impersonal promise. Then came the glossa.

It was shockingly warm and wet, a slick, demanding pressure against his oversensitive, swollen valve lips. Tarn’s tongue probed deep, not with passion, but with a focused, possessive precision, licking Megatron’s transfluid from his quivering, stretched entrance. The sensation was a bizarre, overwhelming mix of violation and intense, unwanted pleasure. Each broad, flat stroke of Tarn’s glossa cleaned him, worshiped him, and claimed him all at once, sending shivers of pure voltage up his spinal strut.

A high, thin whine escaped Starscream’s vocalizer. He could feel the intense, heated stares of his other bonds. Soundwave, a silent, brooding statue of blue and silver, his visor fixed on the obscene display, his field a tightly controlled vortex of jealousy and dark, voyeuristic hunger. And Megatron, a mountain of satisfied power, observing his work with a possessive, gleaming red gaze.

Tarn’s glossa delved deeper, slipping past the outer folds to lap at his inner channel, and Starscream’s back arched off the wall with a broken cry. His hips twitched, a helpless, involuntary buck into the intimate contact. The mask prevented a true, deep kiss, but the hot, wet friction of the mech’s mouth working over his most intimate parts was its own form of profound intimacy. It was a cleaning, yes, but it felt like a branding.

Soundwave could bear the distance no longer. The sight of Tarn’s helmeted head between his conjunx’s legs, the smell of Megatron’s release mingling with Starscream’s own arousal, the thick tension in the air—it was a cocktail that shattered his famed control. He moved forward, his steps silent but his intent a thunderclap in the small space. He didn’t push Tarn aside; he simply claimed his own territory.

His hand, cool and familiar, cupped the side of Starscream’s face, tilting his helm back. The seeker’s optics, bleary and unfocused, met the dark void of his visor. Without a word, Soundwave’s panel retracted and he guided his fully pressurized spike to Starscream’s lips.

“Open,” Soundwave’s voice was a distorted whisper, a command that resonated through their primary bond, layered with a need that was both tender and brutally possessive.

Starscream’s lips parted obediently, and Soundwave pushed inside, his length sliding deep into the seeker’s warm mouth. He began to move immediately, a slow, deep, piston-like rhythm that stole Starscream’s breath and filled his intake. The seeker’s optics fluttered, overwhelmed by the dual sensations—the wet, licking heat on his valve and the thick, stretching fullness in his mouth. He gagged slightly, then relaxed his throat, a low, muffled moan vibrating around Soundwave’s girth.

Shockwave, who had remained a silent, observing sentinel behind Megatron, spoke, his single optic blinking once. “The seeker’s receptivity is at ninety-seven percent. His cognitive resistance is negligible. The presence of his primary and secondary bonds, both observing and participating, has made him pliant. To achieve one hundred percent synaptic submission, he requires a final, unambiguous demonstration of your absolute authority, Lord Megatron. He must see that even his bonds are subject to your will.”

Megatron didn’t speak. A low, approving grunt was his only reply. He watched for a moment longer, the lewd symphony of wet sounds filling the steamy air—the slick slide of Tarn’s glossa, the muffled, rhythmic sounds of Soundwave’s thrusts into Starscream’s mouth. Then, with a dismissive gesture, he reached down and grabbed Tarn by the shoulder, pulling him bodily away from Starscream’s valve.

Tarn went willingly, his mask glistening with fluids, a low growl of protest dying in his throat as he met Megatron’s gaze. Megatron didn’t even look at him. His focus was already returning to Starscream. In the same fluid motion, he slammed his own immense, still-glistening spike back into the seeker’s waiting, thoroughly prepared valve.

Starscream screamed around Soundwave’s length, the sound a choked, gurgling cry of overwhelming ecstasy. The sudden, crushing fullness was a shock that lit up every nerve ending. He was so full, so utterly and completely claimed, stretched to his absolute limit at both ends.

Megatron began to move, his thrusts powerful and deep, a brutal counter-rhythm to Soundwave’s. But his hands were not idle. As he drove into Starscream’s valve, he reached out. One massive hand found the junction of Soundwave’s thighs, where his own valve panel was tightly sealed. Megatron’s thick, powerful fingers didn’t ask for entry; they demanded it. He pressed against the seam, and with a soft, yielding hiss, Soundwave’s panel retracted.

Soundwave’s rhythm in Starscream’s mouth faltered for a nanosecond, a sharp, startled burst of static escaping his vocalizer. His hidden valve, slick and sensitive, was suddenly exposed to the cool air and Megatron’s intrusive touch. Megatron pushed two thick fingers inside without preamble, a brutal, curling motion that scraped over internal nodes with merciless precision.

The effect was instantaneous. Soundwave’s visor flashed a brilliant, blinding white. His hips stuttered, his thrusts into Starscream’s mouth becoming erratic. A powerful overload, silent but visually spectacular, wracked his frame. Transfluid spilled from his spike, flooding Starscream’s throat in hot, pulsing waves. The seeker had no choice but to swallow, the taste of his conjunx’s climax a salty, metallic flood that merged with the lingering taste of Megatron on his own lips.

As Soundwave shuddered through the last pulses of his finish, Megatron withdrew his wet fingers from the communications mech’s valve. He brought them, glistening with Soundwave’s own lubricants, to Starscream’s lips, smearing the moisture across them.

“Taste him,” Megatron growled, his voice a dark rumble of absolute power. “Taste the mech you call conjunx, reduced to a quivering mess by my hand. Remember his taste, even as you feel me claim what is mine.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He turned his head, his crimson gaze burning into Tarn, who was watching, his own field a riot of aroused, submissive static.

“And you,” Megatron commanded, his voice leaving no room for doubt. “Interface with Soundwave. Now. Let my seeker watch his bonds pleasure each other for my amusement. I want his valve to remain tight and eager, thinking of nothing but my next claiming, while he watches his conjunxes become my newest entertainment.”

Tarn’s obedience was instant and brutal. His massive hands seized Soundwave, spinning the slimmer mech and slamming him face-first against the wall with a resounding crash of metal on tile.One of Tarn’s hands pinned Soundwave’s waist, while the other roughly spread his leg, exposing his valve panel. With a grunt of effort, Tarn positioned himself and drove his spike home in one savage, unyielding thrust.

Soundwave’s entire frame jolted against the wall, a choked, static-filled cry tearing from his vocalizer at the sudden, brutal intrusion.

And Starscream felt it all.

A phantom, devastating fullness ripped through his own valve, a perfect, agonizing echo of the spike sheathing itself inside Soundwave. He gasped, his hips bucking against Megatron’s relentless rhythm as a dual sensation of being violently taken from behind overwhelmed his sensors. He saw it through their bond—the cold, merciless tiles, the overwhelming stretch, Tarn’s powerful, piston-like thrusts that were already setting a punishing pace.

Soundwave’s composure shattered. His hands, splayed against the wall, clenched into fists. Then, in a move of shocking vulnerability, his facial plating retracted with a sharp hiss, revealing his true face beneath the visor. He twisted his helm, his lipplates seeking Tarn’s masked ones in a desperate, obsessive kiss. It was a clash of dominance and surrender, a messy, breathless tangle of glossa and teeth that Starscream could taste through the bond—a metallic tang of shock and a dark, rising thrill.

Above him, Megatron felt the seeker’s valve tighten like a vice around his spike, the internal flutters a direct response to the spectacle. A dark, possessive grin spread across the warlord’s face. “You feel it, don’t you, seeker?” he growled, his voice a low thunderclap in Starscream’s audial. “You feel yours conjunx being broken in for my amusement. They pleasure is your pleasure. They degradation is your own.”

Megatron’s hips began to move with renewed purpose, a deeper, more curling thrust that buried his spike to the hilt with each powerful snap, as if to personally punish Starscream for the attention being paid to another. “And your pleasure… belongs solely to me.”

Across the room, Shockwave observed, his single optic unwavering. Data streamed across his internal HUD, noting the spike in Spark Synchronization readings between all four mechs. But another reading, anomalous and illogical, demanded his attention. A heat bloom was building within his own chassis, a flush of energy gathering behind his own interface panel. It was an impossibility. He had purged himself of such base, emotional programming cycles millennia ago. Yet, the evidence was irrefutable. His cooling fans clicked on, a soft whir that was lost in the symphony of grunts and wet impacts.

Megatron’s sharp optics caught the subtle shift in the scientist’s posture, the minute tension in his frame. The warlord’s grin widened into something truly predatory. He never missed a thrust into Starscream’s clutching heat, but his attention was now divided.

“See something you desire, Shockwave?” Megatron’s voice cut through the humid air, laced with dark amusement.

Shockwave remained silent, but his optic flickered, a telltale sign of internal recalculation.

“Do not bother to deny it. Your frame betrays your clinical disinterest,” Megatron purred, his voice dropping into a intimately threatening register. “You watch them be used, and you wonder what it would be like to be of use yourself. You are not the first brilliant mind to be undone by the lure of the flesh.”

With a final, deep grind into Starscream that made the seeker sob, Megatron shifted his weight. One hand remained firmly on Starscream’s hip, holding him in place, while the other gestured to his own array. His interface panel retracted. But it was not his spike that was presented.

It was his valve.

A rare, profoundly intimate sight. The mesh was a deep, formidable crimson, glistening with internal lubricant, Powerful calipers rippled slowly, hinting at a devastating internal structure designed to milk a spike utterly dry. Only two mechs in history had ever been granted access. Shockwave, whose own monstrous spike and custom array modifications were one of the few capable of matching the warlord’s brutal specifications. And Optimus Prime, whose leadership matrix had altered his spike, wrapping it in energy thorns that created sensations no other could replicate.

The invitation was undeniable.

Shockwave’s logic circuits screamed against the illogic of desire, but his body obeyed a more primal directive. His own panel hissed open. His spike pressurized into the steamy air, truly colossal in its length and girth, a testament to his own radical modifications. He stepped forward, the movement uncharacteristically hesitant, driven by a need he could not quantify.

He positioned himself behind his lord, his massive hands settling on Megatron’s broad hip plates. He pushed forward, his enormous spike nudging against the offered valve before sinking into the tight, scorching heat in one smooth, powerful motion.

Megatron groaned, a sound of pure, deep satisfaction as he was filled, the stretch a familiar and welcome burn. The movement pushed him forward, driving his own spike even deeper into Starscream, who cried out at the sudden, impossible increase in pressure. He was the filling in a powerful, merciless sandwich, crushed between two overwhelming forces.

The synchronization was instantaneous and cataclysmic. Every one of Shockwave’s deep, measured, powerful thrusts into Megatron translated into a driving, grinding pressure inside Starscream. Combined with the ghostly echoes of Tarn’s ruthless pounding of Soundwave, which still vibrated through his bond, Starscream’s world dissolved into a feedback loop of relentless sensation. His overloads began again, one after the other, violent, shaking things that left him screaming soundlessly, his valve spasming around Megatron in a continuous, milking rhythm.

Leaning close to Megatron’s audio receptor, his rhythm never faltering, Shockwave whispered, his voice a low, analytical monotone that starkly contrasted the carnal act. “Spark synchronization with the seeker is at ninety-eight percent. Recommend immediate final bonding. The confluence of sensory input has left his spark fully exposed and receptive. Initiate the permanent sparkbond upon your next overload. The probability of success is now ninety-nine point seven percent.”

Megatron’s red optics burned with triumphal fire. He looked down at the wrecked seeker beneath him, at the mech who had been defiance incarnate and was now reduced to a sobbing, overloaded mess on his spike.

“Open your spark chamber, Starscream,” Megatron commanded, his voice echoing with the power of a god. “Now.”

The order brooked no refusal. Weeping, trembling, Starscream obeyed. His chest plates parted with a series of soft, hydraulic hisses. His spark was revealed, a brilliant, celestial blue maelstrom, lashed through with threads of gold and the violent crimson of his bonds. It pulsed erratically, exposed and utterly vulnerable.

Megatron’s own chamber hissed open above him, the light from his spark—a dark, potent, all-consuming blue—washed over Starscream, a possessive shadow. “And mine,” he growled.

He leaned down, the movement forcing his spike even deeper, and began the final, brutal rhythm that would seal their fates. As he moved, he spoke the words that would chains Starscream to him for eternity.

“Now you can no longer escape. You belong to me. To the Decepticons. Forever our loyal servant. You will serve. You will obey. You will give light to the future of our empire.”

Through the haze of pleasure-pain, through the ghost-feel of Tarn ravaging Soundwave, Starscream’s vocalizer, cracked and strained, formed the only words left to him. “Yes… I will obey… I am yours… I am yours…” His voice rose to a desperate scream as another overload, the most powerful yet, tore through him.

The words were a hot, shameful brand, seared into his very spark. “Yes… I will obey… I am yours… I am yours… Please… more…”

Megatron’s roar of triumph was a physical force, shaking the very air. His final thrust was absolute, a crushing, perfect invasion that pinned Starscream to the berth, a butterfly on a display board. The warlord’s spark flared, its dark, potent blue light eclipsing Starscream’s own chaotic maelstrom, not just touching it, but consuming it. The sensation was not a merger; it was a conquering. A fundamental, violent rewrite of his very essence. A thread of pure, unyielding blue—the color of absolute power—wove itself through the gold and crimson of his being, binding them, dominating them, sealing him forever.

Starscream’s overload was a silent, seizing cataclysm. His valve clamped down on Megatron’s spike with a force that felt like it would crack his own pelvic struts, milking the warlord with frantic, involuntary ripples. He could feel the hot, pulsing rush of Megatron’s transfluid flooding his depths, a scalding claim that filled him to overflowing. It was a claiming more visceral than any sparkbond, a brutal, physical stamp of ownership.

Through the blinding haze, he felt the echoing shudders of the others. Shockwave’s deep, measured thrusts into Megatron stuttered into a final, powerful climax, a burst of chaotic data that briefly overwhelmed the scientist’s logical field. Across the room, Tarn’s brutal pace broke into a savage, roaring finish, and Starscream felt the phantom, gut-wrenching flood of that release as if it were his own, a secondary violation that somehow, shamefully, amplified the pleasure wracking his own frame.

For a long, suspended moment, there was only the sound of harsh, ragged venting and the slow, wet drip of multiple fluids onto the floor. Megatron remained buried within him, a crushing, possessive weight, his spark energy slowly receding but its new, dominant frequency a permanent, throbbing hum in Starscream’s core.

Then, the warlord moved. He pulled out of Starscream with a wet, slick sound that was obscenely loud in the sudden quiet. The sudden emptiness was a void, a cold, aching loss that made Starscream whimper. Transfluid, warm and plentiful, immediately began to leak from his well-used valve, painting his thighs and the berth beneath him.

Megatron turned, his own array now closed, his gaze sweeping over the room. His optics glowed with dark, satiated power. Soundwave was slumped against the wall where Tarn had left him, his true face still exposed, his vents heaving. Tarn stood over him, his own frame still humming with spent energy. Shockwave had already retreated a step, his panel closed, his single optic blinking rapidly as he processed the illogical sensory data from his own overload.

“A resounding success,” Megatron announced, his voice a low, pleased rumble. He gestured a lazy hand towards Starscream’s prone, trembling form. “The seeker is ours. Truly ours. His spark is now a permanent beacon of our will.”

He couldn' be more happy.

Chapter Text

The weeks that followed were a hazy, pain-streaked blur of transformation and profound exhaustion. Starscream’s new private quarters, a significant upgrade from the med-bay and the cold washracks, were a strange mix of luxury and clinical observation. He spent most cycles propped up on a reinforced berth, his frame aching in ways he’d never imagined, a heavy, warm fullness growing deep within his chassis that had nothing to do with any spike.

Shockwave was a near-constant presence, his single, luminous optic a cool, dispassionate beacon in the dim light. His long, slender fingers were surprisingly deft as they monitored the seeker’s vital signs, running scanners over his abdominal plating, and murmuring notes into a data-pad. The silence between them was rarely broken by words, only by the soft whir of medical equipment and Starscream’s own strained venting.

“The development is progressing with remarkable efficiency,” Shockwave stated one cycle, his monotone cutting through the quiet. He adjusted a scanner, its lens glowing a soft blue against Starscream’s silver belly. “Your frame is accepting the burden with a ninety-seven percent success rate. A testament to your unique design.”

Starscream could only manage a weak flutter of his wings in response. The “burden” was a constant, low-grade ache that was slowly building into a deep, insistent pressure. He felt… stretched. Full. It was a different kind of fullness than being taken by Megatron or Tarn. This was an internal, inexorable expansion that left him feeling vulnerable and strangely powerful all at once. His spark, a tangled knot of three conflicting bonds, seemed to pulse in time with the new life growing within him, a chaotic rhythm soothed only by Soundwave’s steady, cobalt presence humming at the edge of his consciousness.

The final stretch of the gestation was the most demanding. The pressure became a grinding, insistent pain that seized his entire lower frame in waves. He was kneeling on the berth, supported by Shockwave’s unyielding frame, his vents heaving, his claws digging into the reinforced mesh of the berth covering.

“The process has initiated,” Shockwave announced, his voice still impossibly calm, though his grip on Starscream’s shoulder was firm, steadying. “You must push, Starscream. Do not resist the imperative.”

A guttural cry was torn from Starscream’s vocalizer as the first true contraction wracked his frame. It was a pain beyond any overload, a deep, rending sensation that stole the air from his intakes. He bore down, pushing against the agony, his entire world narrowing to the intense, burning pressure between his legs.

It’s too much, his processor screamed, a panicked thought quickly smothered by a sudden, fierce determination. He pushed again, a low groan rumbling in his chassis. Shockwave’s hand remained a solid anchor on his back.

“Steady,” the scientist instructed. “The first is always the most difficult.”

With one last, agonized shudder, the pressure peaked and then released. A smooth, heavy weight slid from his valve, followed by a rush of warm, slick fluid that carried a familiar, sweet-metallic scent—the same translucent pink hue as his own overloads. Shockwave’s free hand moved with clinical precision, catching the object before it could touch the berth.

Starscream panted, his frame trembling with effort and relief. He twisted, trying to see, his optics wide. Shockwave held it up for a moment: a perfect, ovular egg, its shell a stunning, opalescent silver that seemed to shimmer with an internal light. It was streaked with delicate veins of a familiar cobalt blue.

Before he could process it, another contraction seized him. The second egg came more easily, then a third, each one a slightly different size and color pattern emerging from the pink fluid. He lost count, lost in the rhythm of strain and release, of Shockwave’s calm directives and his own ragged cries. His valve ached, stretched and sensitive, but the primal need to expel overrode all other sensation.

The heavy hiss of the chamber door opening barely registered. But the shift in the room’s energy was immediate and immense. Starscream, dazed and panting, looked up through a haze of exhaustion.

Megatron stood in the doorway, his massive frame dominating the space. Soundwave was a step behind his right shoulder, his visor instantly locking onto the scene, his field spiking with a potent mixture of anxiety and awe. To Megatron’s left, Tarn’s single optic burned with an intensity that made Starscream’s spark flutter nervously.

They had arrived just in time to see the fourth egg, this one a dark, burnished grey streaked with violent crimson, slide into Shockwave’s waiting hands. The fifth was already beginning to crown.

“Do not stop, Starscream,” Shockwave said, his voice the only steady thing in the room. “Their presence is irrelevant to the process. Focus.”

But it was impossible. Megatron’s red gaze was a physical weight, assessing, approving. Soundwave took a silent step closer, his attention fixed on Starscream’s face, his own concern a quiet hum across their bond. Tarn simply watched, his masked face unreadable, but his field was a roiling storm of something dark and possessive.

Empowered by their presence—or perhaps cowed by it—Starscream pushed one last time. The seventh and final egg, the largest of the clutch, emerged with a final, relieved sigh from the seeker. He slumped forward, spent, his wings drooping low and trembling. Strong hands were suddenly there, not just Shockwave’s. Megatron’s broad palm settled on his back, a surprisingly steadying weight. Soundwave was at his side, a cool cloth dabbing at his forehead, his field radiating a soothing, possessive pride. Even Tarn moved closer, his presence a silent, intimidating guard at the foot of the berth.

“The seeker has performed adequately,” Megatron rumbled, his voice lacking its usual sharp edge, replaced by a note of deep satisfaction.

“An excellent yield,” Shockwave corrected blandly, already moving to clean the eggs with warm, sterile cloths. He laid each one carefully in a deep, cushioned tray forged from rare Vosian crystal. As he wiped them clean, their true colors were revealed under the light, each one a breathtaking work of art.

All seven shared a base of Starscream’s opalescent silver, a testament to the carrier. But woven through that base were distinct patterns that made the Sires’ sparks leap in recognition. Two were veined with the deep, resonant cobalt of Soundwave. Two others were streaked with the menacing, violent crimson of Tarn. The final three, the largest of the clutch, bore the unmistakable, powerful azure of Megatron himself, the color deep and dominant against the silver.

“Seven viable sparklings. All fertile,” Shockwave stated, arranging them carefully in the crystal tray. “The incubation period will require several months. They will emerge fully formed, their color schemes already denoting their lineage.”

He turned his optic to Starscream, who was being supported by Soundwave, his vents still cycling heavily. “You are to be commended, Starscream. To achieve a full, fertile clutch from a triple sparkbond of such… intensity… in this timeframe is unprecedented. You have proven your function beyond any doubt.”

Starscream looked from the eggs—his eggs, their eggs—to the faces of the three powerful mechs surrounding him. Exhaustion melted into a wave of something else, something warm and terrifying and proud. The deep, possessive thrum of Megatron’s spark in his chest, the violent pulse of Tarn’s, the steady, reassuring hum of Soundwave’s… they were all looking at him not as a weapon or a toy, but as…

Soundwave’s hand found his, their fingers lacing together. His voice, when it came, was a soft, distorted whisper meant only for him. “You have done well.”

Megatron’s gaze was still on the eggs, a conqueror surveying his greatest prize. Tarn’s optic, however, had shifted from the clutch back to Starscream, his intent unreadable but his focus absolute.

Starscream’s valve ached, stretched and slick, a stark reminder of the process. The heavy, claiming looks from his bonds promised that ache would be soothed, and perhaps exploited, very soon. He was a carrier. The thought was a revelation. He was…

“Happy,” he whispered, the word tasting foreign and right on his glossa. “I am… happy.”

The news traveled through the Decepticon ranks with the speed of a plasma blast. It was a current of excited chatter in the mess hall, a smug aside exchanged between guards on patrol. Starscream, the tricolor seeker, had done the impossible. He hadn’t just survived a triple sparkbond with mechs of immense power; he had thrived, achieving a function so rare it was nearly mythical. He had produced a full, fertile clutch. Seven eggs. The future of the Decepticon cause, literally incubating in a Vosian crystal tray.

Two vehicons, refueling near a ventilation shaft, were particularly effusive. “Never seen a mech look so… content,” one mused, his voice a low rumble. “Like he finally found his place, you know? Serving the cause like that.” “A high honor,” the other agreed. “Lord Megatron must be exceptionally pleased. A true dynasty.”

They didn’t notice the small, silent shadow tucked deep within the ventilation shaft above them. Bumblebee froze, his blue optics wide behind his battle mask. The words sparkbond and eggs and Starscream crashed into his processor, forming a picture he couldn’t quite comprehend but knew was deeply, horribly wrong. He’d heard the rumors, the whispers of something happening in Shockwave’s lab, but this… this was concrete. This was a horror story.

He backtracked through the tight ducts with a scout’s practised silence, his spark hammering in his chassis. He burst into the Autobot’s temporary command center, his vocalizer glitching with static. “Optimus! Ratchet! You’re not going to believe what I just heard!”

Optimus Prime looked up from a tactical display, his brow furrowed in concern. Ratchet paused his welding on a damaged support strut, his expression immediately shifting to one of grim focus. “Spit it out, kid. What is it?”

“It’s Starscream!” Bumblebee blurted out, his words tumbling over each other. “The Decepticons are talking about him. They’re saying… they’re saying Megatron, and Soundwave, and that Tarn guy… they all sparkbonded him. All three! And now… he has eggs. Seven of them! They’re saying he’s happy about it!”

The silence that followed was heavier than any metal. Ratchet’s wrench clattered to the floor, the sound echoing loudly in the sudden stillness. His faceplates paled, then flushed with a fury that made his armor plates seem to vibrate. “He did what?” The medic’s voice was a low, dangerous snarl, utterly devoid of his usual gruff affection. “A triple sparkbond? On Starscream? That’s… that’s abominable! It’s a violation of every known cyber-biological law! The strain on his spark alone… and to force a carrying cycle from it…” He turned to Optimus, his optics blazing. “Do you understand what that means, Prime? The psychological manipulation, the physical torture he must have endured to be pushed into that state? He’s not happy, he’s broken!”

Optimus Prime had gone very still. The light from the display screen reflected in his deep blue optics, but his gaze was turned inward, seeing not data, but a ghost from a past he barely acknowledged. Megatron. The mech he’d once called brother, a fellow revolutionary who dreamed of a just Cybertron. The depth of this new cruelty, this personal, intimate violation, struck a chord of profound sorrow and disgust. He had witnessed Megatron’s descent into tyranny, had fought his armies for millennia, but this felt different. This was a perversion of something sacred.

“Bee,” Optimus’s voice was deep, strained with the weight of the revelation. “Are you certain? There is no possibility of misunderstanding?”

“They were bragging about it, Optimus!” Bumblebee insisted, his field radiating a confused distress. “They said he was finally serving the cause properly. I don’t get it… what does it all mean?”

“It means,” Ratchet spat, cutting off any further explanation, “that Megatron has sunk to a new low. It means Starscream is a prisoner in the most fundamental way possible. His own spark has been turned into a cage. Those eggs aren’t a blessing; they’re chains.” He took a step toward Optimus, his demeanor that of a medic stating an undeniable diagnosis. “We can’t leave him there, Optimus. We can’t leave any of them there. We have to get him out. Him and those sparks.”

Optimus finally moved, straightening to his full, imposing height. The sorrow in his optics hardened into a resolve as solid as his own armor. The Matrix of Leadership pulsed within his chest, a warm, steady beat that affirmed the path before him. This was no longer just a war for a planet. It was a battle for a soul.

“Ratchet is correct,” Optimus declared, his voice now ringing with clear, unwavering authority. “This is an atrocity that cannot be allowed to stand. We will formulate a plan. We will infiltrate the Decepticon stronghold.” He looked from Ratchet’s furious determination to Bumblebee’s concerned face. “We will extricate Starscream and the sparklings from Megatron’s clutches.”

A new, grim energy filled the command center. The war had just found a new, deeply personal front.

Across the sea of stars, in a lavishly appointed room, Starscream shifted on his berth. A deep, pleasant ache lingered in his valve, a constant reminder of his purpose and the attention it garnered. His spark hummed contentedly, a complex chord composed of Megatron’s dominating blue, Tarn’s possessive crimson, and Soundwave’s steady cobalt. He gazed at the crystal tray, at the seven perfect orbs that shimmered under the low light. His. His servos drifted to his abdomen, where the emptiness was already being filled with a new, thrumming anticipation. His bonds would be coming to him soon. They would soothe the ache, they would stoke the heat, they would ensure the future of their legacy grew strong.

He smiled, a genuine, unforced expression that lit up his sharp features. He was complete. He was theirs.

He didn’t hear the first, faint tremor of an alarm from a sector far away. He didn’t feel the shift in the tide. He only felt the promise of the long, warm night to come, and the soft, pulsing glow of the lives he had created.

Ratchet slammed his fist on the console, pulling up schematics of the Nemesis. “I’ll prep the medbay for multiple incoming. Trauma, spark instability, the works. That seeker’s going to need more help than he even knows.”

Optimus placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We will bring them home, old friend.”

Bumblebee looked between them, his spark swelling with a mix of fear and resolve. “What do we do first?”

Ratchet didn’t look up from his screens, his voice grim and focused.

"First we find them"