Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.''