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The interrogation room was a pixelated wash of blue through Jazz’s broken visor. His own energon splattered the tile floors purple and dripped down the center drain. Jazz pulled experimentally at the manacles snaring his wrists and ankles, but while the metal moaned in protest, it did not give.
Hot steam poured from Jazz’s vents and crackled where it met slashed wires. Worse still was the pain and adrenaline hemorrhaging pure electricity into his lines.
He was twitching worse than a syk junkie coming down off a high.
A wall panel slid open, silhouetting a stocky blue frame and a slim felinoid. Their fields were dampened, not that the saboteur could get a read on them on the best day.
Jazz grinned around broken dentae.
“Report current condition,” Soundwave intoned. He stepped closer and his scan tickled over his subject’s frame, marking each wound and weak point.
“Speak.”
The saboteur stuck out his glossa.
“Is that the part you wish to lose next?” Ravage said. Her tail flicked behind her, the pincer gleaming sharp in the dull light.
“Nah…” Jazz smirked, “Not with mechs always tellin’ me it’s one of my best assets. Including present company, of course.”
His voice was hoarse. Half-static.
The femme huffed, “You should have let Vortex mute him, Soundwave.” She made to sit, sniffed the floor disdainfully, and then remained standing.
Jazz swallowed down his laughter but couldn’t keep the amusement from his field. All the mechs who thought Soundwave was in charge were sorely wrong. The true maestro of the surveillance unit prowled on four pedes and drank her engex from a bowl crafted out of a senator’s spark chamber.
“Jazz.”
He turned his helm back to Soundwave as if magnetized to his steady voice, to the comforting gravity of him. The mech’s red visor was fathomless and—
“Needs a spot clean, my ‘con,” Jazz chuckled, then gasped as Soundwave’s hand fit around his throat. Sparks jumped from his vocalizer, from the wires still spliced and open, to ground into Soundwave’s massive hand.
It felt like his very essence was pouring into Soundwave’s palm.
“Jazz: will obey.”
“Make me,” Jazz whispered, but it was a plea, not a threat. He wanted— he needed— that soft space in his processors— that place where all his burdens disappeared—
Soundwave inclined his helm, “Acceptable.”
The edges of their thoughts intermingled like the steam from their vents, hazy and wanting, then growing opaque with desire—
“Heel.” Ravage’s command was absolute.
Soundwave retreated from his saboteur to kneel at her pedes. His back was a supple arch, his head bowed towards the tiles as if yoked. Ravage purred at his obedience and sat up on her haunches to trace her forepaws over Soundwave’s chassis.
The host gasped a sweet note.
When the plates of Soundwave’s armor cracked upon, heat warbling from his frame, Jazz could see glyphs written on his protoform. Scarification. A claim Ravage had carved into him on the streets of Tarn when they’d bonded.
She growled softly, bunting her head against her recorder’s. Matte black scraped against silver and blue.
Jazz couldn’t decipher what she said. This wasn’t for him, anyway.
At long last, the host stood. His datacables slipped from his frame to twine in the air, prehensile and sinewy. That optic band glowed like a red giant devouring its planets,
This was any Autobot’s nightmare, seeing Soundwave on the hunt. Jazz couldn’t help but shiver. His systems warred between fear and arousal, pain and yearning.
He’d been awake for cycles, stressed and starved and tortured, he needed—
“Submission: required,” Soundwave intoned.
“No.” Jazz hissed. Make me.
“Submission: inevitable.”
“Fuck off.”
Those datacables leapt like a viper to embed thin hooks into Jazz’s plating. He screamed as they drilled into him and seized his ports. Error messages pounded through his helm to the tune of energon and charge surging up to Soundwave’s cables.
The saboteur’s back arched off the wall.
Jazz grit his cracked dentae, tasting his own energon, chassis heaving. His firewalls were strong. They were constructed like a labyrinth and every data node was protected by endless false corridors.
But down each corridor, Soundwave marched unceasingly as a hundred-headed hydra. The saboteur could do nothing but strike, evade, and retreat until his systems were redlining and heat poured from his vents. Starvation and torture had taken its toll and he warred against his own failing mechanisms as well.
“Submission: inevitable,” Soundwave repeated from within Jazz’s processor.
Jazz cried out weakly as the comms mech pinned him— mentally, physically— there was a hand encircling his throat as tightly as the manacles around his limbs and the impregnable wave of Soundwave’s processors breaching his own.
There was a shatter, a fracture that lit his sensory net on fire as his processors attempted to purge all his sensitive data. Soundwave easily batted the aggressive auto-defense aside. He had full control.
Jazz slumped, panting smoke, as his systems were manually set to order. Foreign code blinked past his optics and was accepted without his input.
Everything was muted, yet intensified. He could see himself through Soundwave’s visor and feel the way his own body shivered in the recorder’s hold. Wanting, arousal, pain, anxiety— there was no emotion that Soundwave could not engage in, envelope.
“Jazz: ours.”
Energon seeped from Jazz’s visor and was brushed off just as quickly. He could hear Ravage proudly purring.
“Jazz… is fucking tired," Jazz mumbled.
“Jazz: ours.”
The saboteur shuddered away from Soundwave’s searing red visor, from the burn of his expectations, and offlined his optics. The host turned his optics back on and tightened the hand around Jazz’s throat.
“Yours— I’m— mmyours…”
Acquiescing felt like hot oil pooling up around him until he was drunk on it. The saboteur went loose and pliant as Soundwave parted his thighs. Large, clever fingers stroked over his spike panel, which emerged and pressurized on the chronicler's command.
Jazz gasped at the kiss of air to his hard spike then moaned like cheap shareware when Soundwave sank to his knees to nuzzle him. Charge simmered in his lines like sparks flying down a detonating cord.
Mask askew, cables taut, Soundwave’s mouth stretched obscenely wide to take Jazz to the hilt. His throat rolled in a steady pulse that left Jazz shaking and spitting static.
Uninhibited. He had no need to be discreet here. Soundwave swallowed his sounds, his wants, and milked Jazz’s spike down his throat while Ravage growled her approval.
Jazz could feel Soundwave inside of him, too— phantom touches squeezing his aft and bumper, echoes of his own spike fucking the host’s warm, silky throat.
Soundwave gave a helpless moan and shoved forward until his nasal ridge mashed against Jazz’s belly. He sucked spike like he was starved for it. Keening, Jazz threw back his helm and saw constellations burst above him. Helpless in the best way as the host sated himself.
Charge and pleasure poured into him from Soundwave, coursing like molten lava through the cables, and unlike the host, Jazz wasn’t built to handle the data. His frame seized up, limbs spasming as he screamed. It was pleasure so pure, so powerful, that it was white-hot pain, and pain so perfect it was untold pleasure, burning and purifying all at once.
He caught Soundwave’s blazing visor as his vision darkened. Drool and slick frothed around the host’s mouth and dripped down his bulging throat.
Yours, Jazz thought. His mouth slackened but he was smiling. He was dizzy. He was flying.
Ours, reverberated through him.
They were complete.
+ + + + +
Jazz onlined slowly.
His tank was full and his lines were soothed with fresh coolant. Even the ache in his frame was alleviated by how tenderly his patches had been applied. Soundwave had a soft touch, especially for mechs he knew intimately.
When Jazz stretched experimentally, pain shot up his aft and valve. He loosed a shivery moan thinking about his limp, unconscious frame at Soundwave’s mercy.
“I imagine you want the tape of that?”
He blinked blearily over at Ravage. They were on Soundwave’s berth surrounded by crumpled sheets. The host himself was a blue mountain of sleep to their side. The biolights of his chassis glinted a warm red and rose and fell with his vents.
Ravage loafed primly on a large silk pillow.
“‘Course I want the tape,” he grinned, “Watchin’ old reruns just ain’t the same.”
He rolled over to her side and threw an arm over her, breathing in her scent. Ravage tolerated ear scritches for all of two nanokliks before snapping at Jazz’s hand. He giggled, waggling his fingers in front of her muzzle.
She could bite through his struts if she wanted.
The femme rolled her optics instead, “Spoiled brat. You think we can come running every time you purposefully get yourself captured and send my mate lewd messages about how empty—”
Jazz flicked her rhinarium and she yowled in offense, batting him away, before flopping over Jazz’s chest and play-growling vengefully.
“Soundwave should let me take your reins,” Ravage said, “I’d have you disciplined in half a vorn.”
“Ha! You’d have better luck making me a Decepticon.”
“I would, wouldn’t I?” She cocked her helm, “You fit the profile, anyway. Low-caste. Violent. Survivor. You’ve learned more in prisons than you have in classrooms and chose a profession in shadows and deceit. And… when you need a break from the world, you come here.”
Jazz hummed tunelessly. He looked away from the femme but he couldn’t shake off the feeling that she’d hooked her claws into him.
“Well?”
“Well what?” He snapped, then winced.
Ravage bared her fangs in a grin, “Why haven’t you joined us?”
“Query: seconded,” Soundwave cut in. His voice was still grainy from sleep, “Jazz: desired. Would be cherished as a Decepticon. Protected. Admired. Jazz: would be granted ability to carry out work without fear of social backlash.”
“I don’t mind a little shame, actually,” Jazz said, feeling outnumbered, “Keeps me on the straight and narrow—”
Ravage made a sound like she’d gotten a glitchrat tail stuck in her throat, “That’s the Senate’s rulebook, demonizing violence while they used legislation like a scythe. Violence itself has no morality. It is simply a tool.”
Jazz avoided her optics. His spark ached, colder than a meteoroid in the vacuum of space.
He’d been slipping around his Autobots. Too insubordinate, too cruel. He didn’t want to let Hoist rifle around in his coding again like there was a misplaced modifier making him too much. He didn’t want to be running around base evading Prime’s puppy dog eyes.
Soundwave drilling into his processors, forcing vulnerability— that helped. But he wanted to be on the other side— yearned to be doing the hurting, and that— Jazz shivered.
“Autobots: keep Jazz caged.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing.”
Ravage shook her helm, her jaw scraping lightly against Jazz’s chassis, “They’re wasting your innate talents and then blaming you for feeling unfulfilled. We’d take care of you. You’d be ours.”
Jazz whined.
A massive arm settled over his midsection, pulling him closer to Soundwave’s chassis. The tapedeck’s field was a balm.
Ravage rolled gracefully from her sprawl over Jazz’s bumper and returned to perch on her silk pillow. She watched as her Soundwave bent Jazz in half and pressurized his spike directly into that sloppy, overused valve. Lubricant gushed between them, easing Soundwave’s fingers to rub circles on a slick, eager node.
Jazz moaned uninhibited and his arousal was a heady vapor filling their berthroom. He suckled the datacable Soundwave pushed in his mouth without hesitation.
Ravage purred.
Soundwave nodded, Submission: inevitable.