[G1] Hurricane
Jun. 22nd, 2014 06:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: And the last flash fiction is complete in the form of this somewhat NSFW oneshot that is a sequel to another flash fic turned oneshot. Go figure. And enjoy!
Title: Hurricane
Universe: G1, sequel to Inside Out
Characters: Soundwave
Rating: T
Warning: fairly smutty daydreaming, mentions of BDSM
Description: Soundwave wants what he cannot have and desires what he should not touch.
Dedication: For Dellessa, who gave me the prompt Bluestreak/Soundwave, 'glorious'
Bluestreak is utterly unremarkable in every way.
So why, then, is Soundwave so drawn to the garrulous mech? Why then does he send Laserbeak into the Ark, requiring him to return with footage of the Praxian sniper? Why does he order Ravage to trail the doorwinged grounder on his patrols?
Why does he spend hours watching surveillance, spark aching for a glimpse? Why is his recharge haunted by images of intense interfacing without any sort of reality to give them weight? Why can he only remember the look in Bluestreak's optics, the defiance, while imagining the dominance that overtakes his waking hours?
It is a conundrum, one Soundwave is desperate to solve. He finds himself hopelessly mired in the mystery despite each marching beat toward the end of war.
Megatron grows more unstable. Starscream is increasingly desperate. And bit by bit, the Decepticons are outnumbered.
Soundwave does not wish to see his faction fall, their dreams turned to ash and their intentions abandoned. It seems, however, that this is inevitable.
And yet, he spends his time obsessed with a gray Autobot who can't stop talking and has nothing noteworthy to show for Soundwave's odd fascination.
He has talent on the battlefield. Many a Decepticon warrior can attest to that. To the precision shots that take out joints, power packs, and other unique accessories. To the bullet holes that appear out of nowhere, taking a mech down when he never even saw his enemy. There's a reason Starscream aims for Bluestreak every chance he gets, and it's not because he hates Praxians. (Though he does. Soundwave has yet to figure out precisely why. It's another ongoing mystery that he suspects has more to do with Prowl than the Praxian frame in general).
Outside of his sharpshooting, however, Bluestreak is not the sort of mech that should be captivating Soundwave. He is not Megatron, charismatic and powerful and brilliant. Nor is he Optimus Prime, humble and steadfast and enthralling. He doesn't have Prowl's superior processor or Starscream's sly nature or Jazz's allure.
Bluestreak is a low-ranked soldier in the Autobot army with a mundane paintjob and a glitched vocal processor.
He is low-ranked gunner who, somehow, can make the famous and psychopathic Sunstreaker stand down with just a look.
Soundwave has watched this recording too many times to count though the number is logged somewhere. He watches the building altercation between a sullen Sunstreaker and a belligerent Cliffjumper. He sees the tension mounting, the narrowing of blue optics, the snarl of fury and the single step forward, one of physical intent. Soundwave knows how it will end, how one mech will become maimed and the subject of a snarling tantrum from their chief medic and he knows that one mech won't be Sunstreaker.
And then he sees Bluestreak step between them, door panels rigid and hiked upward, his expression stern as he lifts a hand inches in front of Sunstreaker. He puts his back to Cliffjumper, his optics focused on Sunstreaker. He doesn't say anything, not at first. And still, Sunstreaker, the frontliner known for refusing even Prowl or Optimus Prime's commands to retreat, stands down.
Why?
Soundwave watches the video over and over but can't discern a reason. Bluestreak is not Sunstreaker's commanding officer nor match in a hand to hand battle. Yet, the only one surprised by Sunstreaker's retreat is Soundwave. Every other Autobot takes it as the status quo with nary a cycled optic.
Curious.
An explanation eludes him.
And there are other, equally confusing behaviors focused on the loquacious gunner.
Bluestreak spends an inordinate time behind closed doors with the Autobot Third in Command, the bane of Soundwave's existence – Jazz, which probably isn't his true designation anyway but attempts to hack or otherwise discover the truth have proved useless. Soundwave doesn't know what they do behind those closed doors because they always use Jazz's quarters, one private room Soundwave cannot access. They are not lovers or mates since rumors around the Ark seem to believe Jazz has his visor on one of the frontliners. Though whether that's the truth or what Jazz wants Soundwave to believe, he doesn't know.
Jazz is frustrating.
Mostly, however, Bluestreak is everyone's friend, chatting and grinning his way through his off-shift and much of his on-shift. There's nothing special to explain Soundwave's fascination, no facts to support his sudden need to be alone in a room with the Autobot, and not for the purpose of stripping him of tactical information for the Decepticons.
There's no answer, no explanation, and Soundwave doesn't like not having either.
He sits back in his chair, streams hundreds of images and videos to his processor, and drums his fingers across the desk top. He ignores the querying pings from his symbionts, the stack of “important” datapads that require his perusal, and thinks about the submission his spark craves and the Autobot his frame desires.
He imagines what it would be like to be bound to his berth, subject to another's whims, his cooling fans cycling in an endless but vain hope to cool his frame.
He thinks of static snapping over his armor and the creaking of his chestplates as they twitch in a desire to part but remembering the command to be still.
He thinks of a voice, always in motion but turned into something sinuous and promising, caressing his audials with praise and command.
He thinks of the need to kneel, to look up, to see desire simmering in blue optics and the curl of a lipplate.
He imagines snapping his facemask aside in the wake of an order, of raising his visor in complete compliance. Of a thumb on his lower lipplate, pushing his mouth open, slipping inside to caress his glossa, rarely touched sensors alight with pleasure. He thinks of shuddering, fingers curling on the floor where they rest, and struggling to keep from overloading on the spot.
Soundwave thinks of a lot of things he should not desire, gaze drawn again and again to the recordings his symbionts had provided.
He wants what he cannot have and desires what he should not touch. This obsession is going to be the end of him, Soundwave is sure of it.
What remains to be seen is which will get him first.
***
a/n: I have every intention of eventually continuing this series. I have this idea slowly building at the back of my mind and I intend to tackle it someday. Hopefully, I can get some of these other projects out of the way first.
So that's the last of the flash fiction. I've got one last update for With Benefits before June's posting is all done. I feel accomplished.
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
Title: Hurricane
Universe: G1, sequel to Inside Out
Characters: Soundwave
Rating: T
Warning: fairly smutty daydreaming, mentions of BDSM
Description: Soundwave wants what he cannot have and desires what he should not touch.
Dedication: For Dellessa, who gave me the prompt Bluestreak/Soundwave, 'glorious'
Bluestreak is utterly unremarkable in every way.
So why, then, is Soundwave so drawn to the garrulous mech? Why then does he send Laserbeak into the Ark, requiring him to return with footage of the Praxian sniper? Why does he order Ravage to trail the doorwinged grounder on his patrols?
Why does he spend hours watching surveillance, spark aching for a glimpse? Why is his recharge haunted by images of intense interfacing without any sort of reality to give them weight? Why can he only remember the look in Bluestreak's optics, the defiance, while imagining the dominance that overtakes his waking hours?
It is a conundrum, one Soundwave is desperate to solve. He finds himself hopelessly mired in the mystery despite each marching beat toward the end of war.
Megatron grows more unstable. Starscream is increasingly desperate. And bit by bit, the Decepticons are outnumbered.
Soundwave does not wish to see his faction fall, their dreams turned to ash and their intentions abandoned. It seems, however, that this is inevitable.
And yet, he spends his time obsessed with a gray Autobot who can't stop talking and has nothing noteworthy to show for Soundwave's odd fascination.
He has talent on the battlefield. Many a Decepticon warrior can attest to that. To the precision shots that take out joints, power packs, and other unique accessories. To the bullet holes that appear out of nowhere, taking a mech down when he never even saw his enemy. There's a reason Starscream aims for Bluestreak every chance he gets, and it's not because he hates Praxians. (Though he does. Soundwave has yet to figure out precisely why. It's another ongoing mystery that he suspects has more to do with Prowl than the Praxian frame in general).
Outside of his sharpshooting, however, Bluestreak is not the sort of mech that should be captivating Soundwave. He is not Megatron, charismatic and powerful and brilliant. Nor is he Optimus Prime, humble and steadfast and enthralling. He doesn't have Prowl's superior processor or Starscream's sly nature or Jazz's allure.
Bluestreak is a low-ranked soldier in the Autobot army with a mundane paintjob and a glitched vocal processor.
He is low-ranked gunner who, somehow, can make the famous and psychopathic Sunstreaker stand down with just a look.
Soundwave has watched this recording too many times to count though the number is logged somewhere. He watches the building altercation between a sullen Sunstreaker and a belligerent Cliffjumper. He sees the tension mounting, the narrowing of blue optics, the snarl of fury and the single step forward, one of physical intent. Soundwave knows how it will end, how one mech will become maimed and the subject of a snarling tantrum from their chief medic and he knows that one mech won't be Sunstreaker.
And then he sees Bluestreak step between them, door panels rigid and hiked upward, his expression stern as he lifts a hand inches in front of Sunstreaker. He puts his back to Cliffjumper, his optics focused on Sunstreaker. He doesn't say anything, not at first. And still, Sunstreaker, the frontliner known for refusing even Prowl or Optimus Prime's commands to retreat, stands down.
Why?
Soundwave watches the video over and over but can't discern a reason. Bluestreak is not Sunstreaker's commanding officer nor match in a hand to hand battle. Yet, the only one surprised by Sunstreaker's retreat is Soundwave. Every other Autobot takes it as the status quo with nary a cycled optic.
Curious.
An explanation eludes him.
And there are other, equally confusing behaviors focused on the loquacious gunner.
Bluestreak spends an inordinate time behind closed doors with the Autobot Third in Command, the bane of Soundwave's existence – Jazz, which probably isn't his true designation anyway but attempts to hack or otherwise discover the truth have proved useless. Soundwave doesn't know what they do behind those closed doors because they always use Jazz's quarters, one private room Soundwave cannot access. They are not lovers or mates since rumors around the Ark seem to believe Jazz has his visor on one of the frontliners. Though whether that's the truth or what Jazz wants Soundwave to believe, he doesn't know.
Jazz is frustrating.
Mostly, however, Bluestreak is everyone's friend, chatting and grinning his way through his off-shift and much of his on-shift. There's nothing special to explain Soundwave's fascination, no facts to support his sudden need to be alone in a room with the Autobot, and not for the purpose of stripping him of tactical information for the Decepticons.
There's no answer, no explanation, and Soundwave doesn't like not having either.
He sits back in his chair, streams hundreds of images and videos to his processor, and drums his fingers across the desk top. He ignores the querying pings from his symbionts, the stack of “important” datapads that require his perusal, and thinks about the submission his spark craves and the Autobot his frame desires.
He imagines what it would be like to be bound to his berth, subject to another's whims, his cooling fans cycling in an endless but vain hope to cool his frame.
He thinks of static snapping over his armor and the creaking of his chestplates as they twitch in a desire to part but remembering the command to be still.
He thinks of a voice, always in motion but turned into something sinuous and promising, caressing his audials with praise and command.
He thinks of the need to kneel, to look up, to see desire simmering in blue optics and the curl of a lipplate.
He imagines snapping his facemask aside in the wake of an order, of raising his visor in complete compliance. Of a thumb on his lower lipplate, pushing his mouth open, slipping inside to caress his glossa, rarely touched sensors alight with pleasure. He thinks of shuddering, fingers curling on the floor where they rest, and struggling to keep from overloading on the spot.
Soundwave thinks of a lot of things he should not desire, gaze drawn again and again to the recordings his symbionts had provided.
He wants what he cannot have and desires what he should not touch. This obsession is going to be the end of him, Soundwave is sure of it.
What remains to be seen is which will get him first.
a/n: I have every intention of eventually continuing this series. I have this idea slowly building at the back of my mind and I intend to tackle it someday. Hopefully, I can get some of these other projects out of the way first.
So that's the last of the flash fiction. I've got one last update for With Benefits before June's posting is all done. I feel accomplished.
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
