Chapter Text
“Soundwave wouldn’t want to hear me saying nice things about him,” Hot Rod told a bar full of both Autobots and Decepticons. They all shared one designation in common: Cybertonian.
And then Hot Rod began recounting times when Soundwave kicked his aft.
Soundwave felt a thrill of satisfaction. This could take a while.
“What a jerk!”
Hot Rod’s supposed complaint oozed with obvious fondness, warming Soundwave’s spark. It was all part of their little game. Push and pull. Punch and parry. They’d worked surprisingly well together. Soundwave’s tolerance for the loudmouthed speedster had been battered into something like affection.
“Soundwave was truly an evil Decepticon. But Soundwave turned out to be more than that. He became a friend to me. And he was a hero to us all.”
The assembled mechs toasted and drank to his name. Soundwave was nearly bowled over by the cheers and murmurs of remembrance.
After sacrificing himself to take out Tarn, consciousness had been a surprise. He was frameless. A ghostly spark hovering on another plane of existence. Invisible. Doubts about Primus and the sacredness of Cybertron’s core were moot in the face of such incorporeality.
And then he was drawn—quite literally pulled through the air—at the sound of his name on some mech’s glossa.
“Soundwave saved us!”
And then another. And another.
“Soundwave’s a hero!”
“Soundwave is dead?”
Soundwave’s glowing spark was dragged all over the battlefield as his final deed was lauded. It was overwhelming.
He wanted to turn off his audials or cover them with his servos, but he lacked any such appendages. He was just a glimmering soul with no frame to house him, his body destroyed by the explosion. That part had gone to plan. Soundwave knew he would take out Tarn. He did not know he would wake up afterwards. Especially not like this.
Being frameless and invisible had its perks, however. Soundwave didn’t have to clean up in the wake of the battle. He didn’t have to suffer pain from injuries, nor did he have to perform field medicine on anymech who did. He didn’t have to scramble his processor participating in the talks to form an integrated government of Autobots and Decepticons—of Cybertronians, united at last and at great cost.
Tarn inferior. Cybertronians superior.
Eventually, Soundwave learned how to hear his name without being leashed to the mech who uttered it. He could float in the relative peace of his strange afterlife.
But the toast to his memory at Maccadam’s had been such a strong pull that he didn’t resist. And afterward, he lingered in the throng of inebriated mechs until his name died out on most mechs’ glossas—but not Hot Rod’s.
“If only I’d had the nerve to frag Soundwave when I had the chance,” Hot Rod said dejectedly before knocking back more engex.
Soundwave’s spark stuttered over itself.
“Uh yeah. There, there.” Clobber tentatively patted Hot Rod’s spoilers. “Maybe you should talk to someone else about that.”
“Or just frag someone else,” Dead End suggested. “That’ll put him out of your mind.”
“Put who out of his mind?” Bumblebee asked, joining the conversation at the bar.
“Hot Rod misses Soundwave’s spike,” Dead End said bluntly.
Bumblebee and Clobber grimaced.
Hot Rod apparently didn’t have the dignity to protest. He just stared morosely into his cube. “I never even got to see his spike. I’m an idiot. An unfragged one. And now it’s too late.”
“I thought you invited us to this wake to celebrate his life,” Dead End said. “Your sad boner is ruining the vibe.”
“Sorry,” Hot Rod said. “And I’m sorry I never admitted that I wanted him to frag me six ways from Cybertron.”
“Dude, stop,” Clobber whined.
Bumblebee plucked the mostly-drunk cube out of Hot Rod’s servos. “That’s enough of that. Soundwave died a hero. You’ll have to be satisfied with your role in making that happen.”
“Satisfied?” Hot Rod snorted. “Hardly. And I didn’t do anything. It’s not like my friendship made him a better mech. That was all him. He had it inside him the whole time.”
Dead End snickered. “But he didn’t have you inside him.”
“Maybe he’d have been nicer if he did,” Bumblebee mused.
Both Clobber and Hot Rod groaned. Soundwave echoed them on his otherworldly plane.
“You two are making it worse,” Clobber accused.
Dead End shrugged. “Eh, let Roddy wallow in what he missed out on. A life cut short and returned to the Well before his time.”
Except Soundwave hadn’t returned to the Well of Sparks. He was right here! Listening to this…utter nonsense! This overcharged drivel! Because how dare Hot Rod lust after him so blatantly—after he was already dead! It was so unfair.
Soundwave fled Maccadam’s.
He floated aimlessly around the partially-reconstructed city to clear his helm…metaphorically. The petty concerns of the living should no longer matter to him. He was dead, and this was purgatory. Next stop: the flaming, molten hell of Cybertron’s core.
Except those weren’t the flames hogging up space on Soundwave’s processor. Instead, at least half of Soundwave’s bandwidth was focused on the lick and curl of yellow-orange flames on red plating. On the heat radiating from Hot Rod’s actual flames as they faced each other in battle—or, better yet, faced their mutual foes in a united front, back to back, snarking and snarling at each other all the while.
Scrap.
That way lies madness.
“Oooh. Soundwave. Touch me more, just like that.”
Soundwave froze. Someone was saying his name in an amorous context. No, not just someone. Hot Rod.
Soundwave was drawn across Iacon to hover at the foot of Hot Rod’s berth. The speedster had found his way home after Maccadam’s and was now tossing and turning in the dark, his frame lit only by the binary moons streaming in through the open window.
“Oh, Soundwave. Please.”
The breathy plea was accompanied by the soft snick of an array panel opening.
Soundwave didn’t need to breathe without a frame, but if he did, his breaths would have been coming faster.
“Please, I need more.”
Need more what? Soundwave wanted to know. What was Hot Rod dreaming about?
“Slag it. Don’t tease me, ‘Wave.”
Soundwave was amused by the accuracy of Hot Rod’s imagination. The Soundwave of Hot Rod’s dream must’ve continued to tease, because Hot Rod canted his hips and flexed his struts, searching for pleasure that was being denied. Not that there wasn’t pleasure to be found in the anticipation.
Moaning, Hot Rod’s wandering servo bypassed his pressurizing spike and touched the lips of his valve.
Soundwave flicked his gaze from Hot Rod’s exposed interface array to his helm. Hot Rod’s optics were wide open, just like his mouth.
Not dreaming then. Fantasizing.
Soundwave was good at resisting temptation. But he saw no reason to do so now.
He settled himself onto Hot Rod’s burning fame. He could pick up the echo of sensations. The cooling fans whirring to soothe overheated systems. The pulse and flare of interface components. The surge of charge lighting up nerve circuitry from helm to pede.
The flashy red plating would be hot enough to scald if Soundwave had a frame to touch Hot Rod with. He wished he did. He wanted to burn himself on Hot Rod’s desire for him.
Hot Rod’s ability to withstand such extreme temperatures was attributable as much to his outlier ability as to whatever salacious content he was imagining. But that knowledge did little to diminish the smug pride Soundwave took in seeing Hot Rod so undone by the mere fantasy of him. If only they’d taken the time to experience the real thing before...
Soundwave scoffed. What would he have done if Hot Rod had sauntered up to him and invited him to interface? Probably laugh at him, play a taunting melody, and lord it over him like the asshole he was known to be.
If only he hadn’t been so dismissive of the idea of a dalliance. Because it’s not like he hadn’t thought about it. Of course he’d thought about it. He’d entertained the idea of slinging Hot Rod over his shoulder and tossing the mouthy ‘bot onto his berth. Sometimes he imagined Hot Rod would feign outrage before succumbing. Other times, he acknowledged Hot Rod would more likely have eagerly wrapped his servos around him, kissed his faceplate, and purred, ‘What took you so long, hot shot?’ The idea had been especially inspiring when Megatron had put up that stupid wall. Soundwave had imagined Hot Rod stealing himself away to Soundwave’s hab, giving a saucy look and spreading his pedes, offering an outlet for the high-strung tension of the unsatisfying ceasefire they’d won through their partnership. Frag the wall. No, frag the Autobot instead.
But that hadn’t happened. Apparently, frustratingly, it hadn’t happened because Soundwave hadn’t asked. Because he’d worried about Hot Rod’s feelings. Foolishly, he’d wanted to spare Hot Rod the messiness of an affair.
Such uncharacteristic concern spoke to Soundwave’s other hangup. The worse one. The one that pulled Soundwave up short every time he softened his tone when speaking to Hot Rod and made him spit out something mean and biting instead. Although he professed to worrying about the risk of sentiment on Hot Rod’s part, it had already taken root in his own spark. Soundwave liked Hot Rod. Soundwave was getting attached.
And so he’d pushed Hot Rod away. He was rude. Pushy. Deliberately annoying. But Hot Rod didn’t react as expected. No, Hot Rod had taken all of Soundwave’s bullshit and begged for more.
That made Hot Rod dangerous. So Soundwave had scrupulously limited their time together after defeating the Quintessons. And then Tarn and his ‘perfect Decepticons’ happened, and Soundwave had to play the long game in order to protect Cybertron and everymech on it, including Hot Rod. He’d done a slaggin’ good job of it, too—except for getting himself blasted in the process.
“Frag me, Soundwave!” Hot Rod urged. His shiny red frame writhed as he shoved his own digits up his valve.
If only Soundwave could. If only he wasn’t stuck as an amorphous blob. If only he had a frame. Any frame. He wouldn’t be picky. He’d settle for a minicon as long as it had a working spike. He and Hot Rod would make it work. Soundwave would be just as happy to scramble atop Hot Rod and sink down onto that fire-hot brand jutting from its housing, almost neglected. Soundwave wouldn’t neglect such a luscious piece of equipment. He’d put it to good use. He’d at least stroke it in time with the thrusts Hot Rod was imagining. Come on, Hot Rod, he thought. You know I wouldn't leave any part of you untouched.
Almost as if he heard him, Hot Rod began fisting himself in time with the rise and fall of his hips. His optics were offlined—a shame, as Soundwave liked losing himself in their depths—and his mouth was scrunched in his effort to release his built-up charge.
That’s it, Soundwave thought, almost viciously. Come for me. Find your release while thinking of me, only me. Suffer like I’m suffering. To desire the touch of my frame on yours, but to get nothing but emptiness.
Hot Rod’s optics shot open again, and he keened loudly.
Soundwave was desperate to feel as much of Hot Rod’s experience vicariously as he could. He sank into Hot Rod’s very frame, as if he could merge his specter of a spark with Hot Rod’s living one.
It worked better than Soundwave had hoped. He stretched himself out in Hot Rod’s frame, flexing strong struts and luxuriating in the self-inflicted pleasure shooting down Hot Rod’s circuitry. Their circuity. Interfacing by unconventional if eminently satisfying means.
Hot Rod jerked, diverting their energy from pushing their charge over the threshold. “...the frag?!”
Soundwave growled in response. They were so close!
The growl emitted from Hot Rod’s mouth with Hot Rod’s voice.
Hot Rod’s cloudy confusion threatened to derail the proceedings entirely. So Soundwave shared his excitement, his desire, his earnest joy at their connection. Hot Rod was soothed. He sank into the momentum of building charge wracking their frame.
Soundwave nearly lit up Hot Rod’s flamethrowers by accident in his enthusiasm. New frame. Unexpected parameters, he tried to convey apologetically.
The message was received with rueful acceptance. Figures I’d dream about you invading me like one of those Earth bodysnatchers shows. Betrayed by my own processor. I can’t imagine a nice, sweet interface with servo-holding and kisses, no, not with my bossy-in-berth-and-out-of-it ‘Wave.
Soundwave didn’t try to correct Hot Rod’s conclusion about what was really happening here. Hot Rod, as always, was rolling with Soundwave’s punches.
I always wanna roll with you, Soundwave.
Too sappy. Too Autobot-y. But Soundwave was in no position to protest the results of such mawkishness. It was like a flip had switched inside of them, and the buildup of charge was wonderfully inescapable. The precipice was inevitable and welcomed. They flung themselves over it. Together.
Whitehot pleasure raced through every circuit, every nerve-ending. They cried out, a harmonic shout of release that surely gave away Soundwave’s ride-along presence.
Moments ticked by untracked, as they artlessly enjoyed the afterglow of their exertions. Their frame began to cool itself, vents flaring with steam. Their digits were sticky with transfluid and left their still-throbbing valve hollow when they slipped out. They reached for a mesh cloth and found none in reach. A flash of irritation.
Didn’t think it’d be that intense. Hot Rod’s thought was tinged with humor and unearned complacency. Well, partially earned. Soundwave had a heavy servo in it.
If I have to be haunted, I’m glad it’s by you.
Soundwave would find a way to reincorporate. He swore it.
Hot Rod laughed aloud. “You do that, sexy ghost ‘Wave. I’ll be waiting for ya.”
Maybe Hot Rod was joking. Maybe not. But Soundwave was deadly serious, and it wasn’t just a pun. He would return to the living somehow, some way. And then he’d join Hot Rod in this berth for real, and Hot Rod would kiss him and melt for him and frag him and it’d all be worth it. All of it.