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Shockwave tosses his head as Megatron’s sharp fangs sink into his antenna. The sting is fresh and raw, and after all the years of safe, empty, solitary exile, the pain has never been so welcome.
They have spent the day poring over Shockwave’s plans for the cloning project. Shockwave practically has the blueprints memorised, but painstakingly sketching out hypotheticals in his half-repaired lab was one thing; it was quite another to have Megatron’s scorching red optics on him as he explained what he needed. Megatron examined the schematics minutely, but his gaze was always flickering back to Shockwave, reading him as easily as he could a blueprint. Occasionally, the Decepticon leader would interrupt with a question – “How long do you anticipate it will be before the clones are fully matured?” “Why more bones? Why can you not simply replicate the CNA of the predacon we already have?” “Exactly how far can you engineer these specimens, and how much of their final form will be a matter of chance?” There was something heady about finally being back in the company of a mech who can not only follow Shockwave’s theories, but pull them to shreds and help him rebuild them even stronger.
Finally, Megatron pushed the last blueprint aside. “You have done well, Shockwave.” It came out as a purr that crept all the way up Shockwave’s spinal column. “It does my spark good to have you back in our ranks once again.”
Shockwave thumped a fist against his spark chamber and bowed…
… and Megatron drew close, running dexterous clawtips around the curve of Shockwave’s helm, before kissing him right above the optic. It was less a gesture of intimacy than a liege lord’s benediction. Still, the heat of Megatron’s scarred lips on his plating sent a tremor running through Shockwave, and Megatron drew back with a smirk. The next touch was not quite so detached.
And now Shockwave is up against the wall, heat building almost unbearably in his circuits as Megatron’s claws leave gashes on his shoulders, his hips, his thighs. His own hand is working clumsily over the intricate metalwork of Megatron’s back, trying to return some part of the pleasure he feels. He knows that he is long out of practice, but it doesn’t matter; Megatron is in command here.
Teeth nip at his throat, wrenching a long groan out of the scientist. “Mine,” Megatron growls against him.
Shockwave shutters his optic, venting hard. That single word evokes the same feeling that he gets when a complex equation works out, or when the last element of a theory suddenly slots into place.
If he were anyone else, he might call it home.