Chapter Text
On the Nemesis, silence was a rare, valuable thing. Most of the time, it only happened during the unholy, late hours of the night when everybody was either in recharge or pretending to be. Recharge was almost as rare as silence. War had a way of changing the unchangeable, and it thrived when it stripped mechs of their base needs.
The ship was parked above a battlefield on Kaon, where Soundwave had intercepted signals requesting aid. They would have sent factions out to assist, but Megatron had personal dealings with Kaon. Those that were not out on the field were taking advantage of the time to rest, and so the ship was dead quiet. Even on the bridge, which typically housed the most activity at such a late hour.
Soundwave had personally dismissed the few that had shifts there. He could handle everything himself, and the mechs had started dozing off on the job anyway. It would make everything a lot more difficult for everybody if the reports were muddled from recharge, or if some crucial message was missed because a mech hadn't been paying attention. It was simply the more logical solution, as Shockwave would say.
So, when the main door slid open and heavy footsteps thunked through the room, Soundwave was mildly surprised. He raised his helm from where he was hunched over a chart. Those footsteps were recognizable from anywhere, but Megatron was supposed to be recharging. Perhaps the sound of gunfire and explosions reached his quarters easier than Soundwave thought. He would have to order more reinforcement for the walls.
“Lord Megatron,” Soundwave greeted.
Megatron grunted. He lumbered over until he stood by Soundwave, so close that their arms brushed. Soundwave swiftly readjusted his position, standing to attention with his arms crossed behind his back. He knew many of his lord’s moods, and he didn't particularly feel like becoming a hole in the wall. There was a lot that he could get away with — more than, say, Starscream — but he had enough self-respect to play it safe.
Still, he said nothing. Whatever had bothered him enough to bring him to the ship’s bridge at the dead of night was a mystery. Though Soundwave had his theories, he respected his lord’s silence. He crossed the room to their communications console. He would have to triple-check Starscream’s communications to make sure that he was not planning something disastrous. The seeker often took advantage of the few times that Megatron was emotional and distracted.
There was nothing except a couple of unread messages from Swindle about a new weapon that he was trying to sell. Soundwave set a reminder to speak to their combat unit about selling counterfeit items within the army once more. He only had to do it every orbital cycle or so. Usually, Swindle had enough fear for him that it only took a vaguely threatening speech to snap him back into position. A hassle, but never an impossible one.
Together, Megatron and Soundwave worked in silence until the first sun began to crest the horizon. Only then did Megatron acknowledge his presence, and it was with great exhaustion weighing him down. His voice rumbled, deep and gruff and it vibrated through Soundwave’s chassis in a way that he had to consciously ignore. He needed to focus. It would be unwise to allow himself to get carried away so easily.
“What is the status of the battle?”
“Approximately 63% completed, my Lord,” Soundwave recited with a dip of his helm. “We are winning.”
“Good,” Megatron sighed. “I will lead the secondary combat unit out.”
Soundwave swallowed coolant, but acknowledged the statement with a single, sharp nod. He could feel Ravage stirring in his chest, disturbed by the way his spark quickened. There was no reason for him to be reacting that way. The thought of Megatron going out to battle always stirred something feral in him, though. It had way back when he was a gladiator that won every fight with energon running in rivers down his armour, and it did when they were at war, too.
The amount of desire that he held for Megatron was suffocating.
“Acknowledged,” Soundwave said, instead of begging Megatron to take him to the berth like he wanted to. “Rate of success: 97%”
Megatron pushed himself off of the console that he was stationed at and looked at Soundwave, who stared hard at the floor behind his visor. The back of his neck prickled self-consciously. He didn't budge, not even to scratch it like a less sophisticated mech may have. He could make whatever expression he wanted to beneath his visor; it was the rest of his body that was the issue. The control that he had over himself threatened to unravel under the look Megatron was giving him.
“It will be higher,” Megatron promised dangerously. “I will make that into a hundred.”
Soundwave’s optics flickered beneath his visor. His shredded intake twitched and twisted. He couldn't believe himself — he was being ridiculous. His knees were weak and wobbly like a newborn grazer, and he fought to keep himself steady. Ravage hissed and rolled over, pushing at the back of his carrier deck to try and steady the racing thrum of his spark. It, unfortunately, did not work. He used to have more control over himself, but lately Megatron was making it impossible to do.
The way that he carried himself around Soundwave was different. He kept casting lingering gazes that trailed over Soundwave’s form, tracing protruding hips and slender thighs hungrily. He spoke to him differently, as if there was a newfound companionship between them. They had always been good friends, but it was different. It was like how Starscream’s trine spoke to one another. Like how Knock Out and Breakdown spoke to one another.
Trust and respect had always nurtured their relationship to one another. From the very beginning, Megatron respected his abilities and he respected Megatron’s. But lately, the way they talked was like it was their first time, and it was beginning to slowly dig under Soundwave’s exoskeleton. Megatron’s optics softened around the edges as he raised his helm to meet that gaze, and he had to swallow more coolant that pooled in his intake. His fans whirred on the crest of being audible.
“Of course, my Lord,” he managed with a thick, clumsy glossa. “Rate of success: 100%”
Megatron hummed. “Excellent, Soundwave.”
He turned around then, leaving Soundwave with an easy glimpse of the way the pistons in his shoulders flexed. Tension rippled in his built frame, determinedly blood-thirsty. Not in the way that Starscream got jittery before a fight, excited and deliciously eager; but rather, a calm, cold sort of lust for battle that steeled his spark and steadied his processor. Soundwave, though hardly on the field, felt the same way.
It was difficult not to be excited for a success that would bring them fortune. Kaon was a valuable ally to have. Soothing conflict within it and chasing off the troublesome Autobots would guarantee more army recruits, and they needed strong, capable warriors. While Vos had been a crucial recruit, it provided them with more delicate flight frames that didn't do too well with direct combat. They needed more hands-on Decepticons that weren't Swindle or his crew.
Besides, winning always put Megatron and Starscream both into a good mood. When they were both in good moods, they got along much better and less in-fighting would arise. Which meant that Soundwave would have less work to do, and less work meant that he could focus his time on his cassettes. They may have been sleeping soundly — aside from Ravage, though she'd begun to settle as his processor wandered — but that wouldn't last for long.
As predicted, Megatron easily led them to success. Soundwave watched, pride filling his chassis, as his lord climbed into the ship’s bridge. He had to duck beneath the doorway, which aggravated a wound along his spine, but most of the energon splashed along his frame did not belong to him. Signatures of countless different mechs all blended together as Soundwave scanned him.
“I am fine, Soundwave,” Megatron grunted as he brushed past, towards the surveillance console. “I want to watch the field burn as we depart.”
Soundwave stepped up beside him and, with a few swift taps, pulled up the lower deck’s cameras. Then he left Megatron to bask in his success as he went to the navigation console. He punched in the coordinates of their next destination and set the ship to autopilot. He didn't want to steer the Nemesis. He wanted to watch Megatron. Selfish, perhaps, but any guilt that threatened to stir was swiftly squashed beneath his heel. He wasn't doing anything wrong.
There was a certain wistfulness in Megatron’s optics. He looked down at the fires waging the outskirts of Kaon. The Autobots had fled once it began to roughen up, and Megatron ordered some of their more capable, charismatic Decepticons to transfer to a post in Kaon. That way they could be the grand saviours that rescued the city from a blazing disaster. As much as Soundwave’s more pacifistic nature disagreed with the borderline manipulative methods used, he couldn't deny that it worked.
And he couldn't deny that it made Megatron stronger.
“Return to my side, Soundwave,” Megatron called, and Soundwave had never moved quicker.
He stood there in silence for what felt like forever. It was a comfortable silence, one that Soundwave wouldn't mind basking in more often. He was glad that he had the forethought to release his cassettes upon the ship. At the time, it had been to get their energy out — aside from Laserbeak, who was off on a mission — but it also meant that there was nobody to complain when Soundwave’s spark spun a little faster.
A servo strayed in the corner of his vision. Soundwave watched as Megatron placed it firmly on his shoulder and turned him to face those broad shoulders. He swallowed more coolant, feeling a little small and intimidated. Their gazes locked together and didn't budge. Megatron’s optics smouldered a deep red, deeper than he'd ever seen them before.
“There is not a single thing that you would not do for me, is there?” Megatron murmured, drawing Soundwave close enough that their vents shared space.
There were a few things that he would not do for Megatron, but he could sense the path that their conversation was going down and he did not want to stray from it. So he broke optical contact to dip his helm once again; a pattern that had become him so long ago. He didn't fight, or even flinch, when Megatron’s large servo hooked beneath his chin. It didn't move him but rather held him still. His gaze was expectant but not demanding; observant but not intrusive.
“Of course not,” Soundwave said, like it was simple.
Megatron’s smirk curled his derma over sharp fangs. “That is why you are my superior officer. Why you compare to nobody else.”
Soundwave shuddered before he could stop himself. His vocalizer clicked. He didn't want to hear how much better he was than the rest of the army, how much Megatron trusted him and held him up on a pedestal, because it was something that he could easily grow hooked on. It was rare for his lord to dish out praise, even to Soundwave, and it was even more rare for him to take it normally.
A sharpened opposable digit brushed against the edge of his visor. He leaned into the touch despite himself. He was going too far; he was falling, and there would be no coming back from it. If he surrendered there, he would never be the same again. And it would ruin him. But what could he have done?
He spent millennia suppressing his desire for fear of Megatron’s rebuttal. Yet there he was, murmuring soft, gentle praises from beautifully scarred derma as if they weren't flying over countless corpses. As if energon wasn't staining the floor beneath them as it dripped from Megatron’s frame.
His servo snapped up and wrapped around Megatron’s. His lord stiffened but did not pull away, even when Soundwave looked up at him. The intensity of his stare would have sent a lesser mech scrambling away. It would have been worse if Megatron could see the darkened expression on torn derma beneath all of the carefully crafted cover.
“Megatron: intention unclear,” he stated simply, refusing to allow his voice to waver.
“You ask why I am doing this?” Megatron asked.
Soundwave nodded and said nothing.
“Because, my dearest Soundwave, I realized that I have not given you the praise you deserve all of these stellar cycles.”
What had happened on the battlefield to make Megatron so sentimental? Was it something about being in Kaon, or did something go wrong? Did something go too right? Soundwave felt a little nauseous with the intensity that his processor was running. A long-buried part of him that wanted Megatron to silence his racing thoughts for once began to resurface, and he swayed a little on his pedes.
“Praise: unnecessary.” His vocalizer cut and he had to manually reset it to continue. “Soundwave: loyal.”
Megatron softened, and then he was pushing forwards until he had Soundwave crowded up against the console behind him. He let go of his helm in favour of planting both servos on his thighs. Soundwave’s vents hitched and stuttered. He couldn't help the way he so compliantly, eagerly, let his legs be spread so Megatron could fit between them.
“I’ve been wanting to do this for so long,” confessed Megatron in a soft breath against his audials. “You have no idea.”
Soundwave’s helm thudded back against the window. He wasn't sure how long he could hold back. Half of him wanted to collapse and beg senselessly until he had that spike inside of him. The other half wanted to run away and hide from that thing that was going to change the way their relationship worked forever. Megatron was showing him a side of himself that he'd never seen before and, in mechs like him, that was never a good thing.
Something happened on that battlefield. That, Soundwave was sure of. It was just a matter of what. Of course, he could press for information and make it into a big deal. Or he could go along with something he desperately wanted too, and then convince Megatron to talk about it afterwards. A swift, subtle scan of the mech slotted between his legs, laving his glossa over vulnerable neck cables, revealed that nothing was severely wrong.
He was making the decision out of his own will. Heat pooled in Soundwave’s pelvis, and he could feel his valve lubricating. It cycled around nothing, greedy after so long of being neglected. A soft little puff of heated air came from his vents and he tilted his helm to give Megatron’s vicious fangs better access to his neck. Soft, adoring kisses planted themselves along his main fuel line until a sharp pinprick sent him gasping.
Megatron didn't even apologize. He merely cleaned up the leaking energon with his glossa. One servo moved from its resting spot on his leg to slide two digits smoothly over his interface panel. It took every ounce of Soundwave’s self-control to keep it closed. He wouldn't want to seem too desperate, after all.
“My Lord—”
Megatron chuckled. The sound reverberated through their chassis, and Soundwave’s hips canted. He gave in. His interface panel clicked to the side, revealing a dripping valve. A digit larger than his own traced circles around the pretty blue petals. He attempted to grind down against the digit, but his knee knocked against a button on the console that he was propped up on. The lights in the bridge flashed on, and he flinched as his optics struggled to compensate for the sudden visibility.
He looked down, and then back up at Megatron. His lord was completely unfazed, and the sight of it sent shame boiling in his spark chamber. All it took was a bit of pretty words and some denta on his neck, and his composure shattered like glass. It was ridiculous. The things that Megatron did to him were ridiculous. And to think that he prided himself on being one of the few selfless Decepticons out there.
“Do not worry about it,” Megatron soothed. “It only allows me to see you better.”
As he spoke those wretched, addictive words, the tip of his digit dipped into Soundwave’s valve, and his processor went blank with a zap. His intake fell open beneath his face-plate and his vents heaved. He bucked his hips, callipers cycling greedily to suck Megatron in more. His own digits curled over the edges of the console for purchase. He could barely vent properly, and they'd only just begun.
“Tell me,” Megatron began casually, as if he did not have his digit in his Communications Officer’s valve. “How often do you think about me like this?”
All the time, Soundwave wanted to say. Instead, he choked out something incoherent as another digit slid in beside the first. He didn't wait for any adjustment before he was pumping them in and out. His valve, so unused to activity, burned at the stretch. It was dizzyingly good, and he needed more. He needed Megatron inside of him. He needed to feel him on every inch of his sensory net, needed to feel his intake against his own, needed it all—
Megatron stopped.
A terrible, staticky whine was wrenched from his vocalizer before he could stop it. Burning with humiliation, he reset his optics and looked up at Megatron.
“Answer the question,” he said dangerously.
Soundwave didn't hesitate anymore. “All the time,” he said honestly, unblinking.
Megatron’s vents shuddered. He rewarded the honesty by thrusting his digits faster than before. The angle should have been awkward, but it allowed the sharpened tips of them to reach places that Soundwave’s own never could. His legs jumped with every brush against his ceiling node. If his vocalizer wasn't beginning to wear out, he would have been crying for more.
“Good job,” Megatron breathed.
It wasn't fair. The council and their wretched, cruel punishments. His vocalizer had been forcibly offlined so many times that it barely worked anymore. He spoke in as few words as possible to refrain from straining it, but he still yearned. He yearned to sing for his lord, to make him aware of just how good he felt. He would've done it without hesitation, simply to hear more of that.
Instead, he bucked his hips to meet each thrust. His helm lolled briefly before he corrected it, and his optics fluttered. Without even really processing it, Soundwave approved a sudden pop-up. And then Megatron froze, and his helm snapped up, and he realized. His intake closed firmly. His vents hitched. His optics squeezed shut, and he couldn't think about anything aside from the way Megatron’s optics looked when he saw.
The entire right side of his face was shredded and blackened. His denta showed through the gaping hole in his cheek. His glossa twitched visibly as he swallowed anxiously. He did not want to scare Megatron away. It would have been illogical; he'd seen worse, done worse to others, but the fear still lingered in the back of his processor. Why had the pop-up even been sent? Did his frame trust Megatron that much?
Soft derma brushed against his own torn ones. Soundwave gasped into the kiss as the digits inside of him curled upwards. All of the thoughts fogging his processor cleared. His vision came back, and Megatron was kissing him so softly, so gently. Coolant began to pool in the corners of his optics. His damaged, artificial optics that glowed the same vibrant blue as the energon that flowed through his systems.
“You’re beautiful,” Megatron whispered against his intake once he broke the kiss. “So beautiful.”
It was those words, and the way that his digits rubbed up against Soundwave’s ceiling node, that he overloaded to. His vision went white, and every sensation in his frame cranked up to high. His digits scrabbled at the console. His hips bucked. He rode out his overload on Megatron’s servo until he was panting, helm low. Coolant streamed down his cheeks. They stung, chilled by the traitorous liquid.
Megatron watched the entire thing closely. As closely as Soundwave watched him when he retreated to the battlefield. And then, when he came back, Megatron was lifting him off of the console by his hips. He wrapped his legs around that broad waist and his arms around that scarred neck and let his helm rest on his chassis. His entire frame felt weak as charge seeped from it.
Until the tip of a spike slid through his valve, and a jolt of electricity went straight up Soundwave’s spine. He moaned a little breathlessly, wriggled his hips, and felt firm servos on his hips guide him down. They were in for a long night.