Chapter Text
The world was a rust-colored smear of jagged canyons and acidic rain, a backwater rock so far from Cybertronian space that it didn't even have a name, just a catalogue number. And here, in a damp cave that smelled of sulfur and defeat, the Decepticon seeker Nullwave was reaching his absolute limit.
"Just hold it steady, you lumbering oaf!" Nullwave snapped, his voice a sharp, staticky hiss. His long, elegant fingers, designed for calibrating hypersensitive targeting arrays, were currently wrist-deep in the sparking, mangled innards of a shared power converter. It was the only thing that could get their comms online, and their only hope of escaping this pit before the planet's corrosive atmosphere finished the job the Autobots had started.
Hound, the green-and-tan Autobot, leaned against the cave wall, arms crossed over his broad chassis. "Steady? Con’, my hands are for crushing Decepticon helms, not playing spark surgeon. You're overthinking it. The universal solution to most problems is a well-applied percussive adjustment."
Nullwave’s optic twitched. "A 'percussive adjustment'? You mean hitting it. You want to hit the delicate, critically damaged piece of machinery that is our only tether to salvation." He didn't look up, focusing on re-threading a fused conduit. "Your intellectual capacity is truly staggering. It must be so simple, living in a world where every problem looks like a nail because the only tool you possess is your own thick head."
Hound just chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that grated on Nullwave's audials. "It's kept me online this long. Besides, all that fancy thinkin' got you shot down and stranded with me, didn't it?"
It was a low blow, and it hit its mark. Nullwave’s pride, a gleaming, well-polished thing, had been tarnished the moment his elegant wings had been clipped by Autobot ground-fire. Being forced to rely on this… this brute was a special kind of torment.
For days, it had been the same. Nullwave would devise a complex, elegant solution. Hound would suggest hitting it, kicking it, or blowing it up. The seeker’s nerves were stripped raw, every condescending "con’" and every simplistic suggestion like sandpaper on his spark.
The final straw came when Nullwave, after three hours of painstaking work, had the converter almost realigned. He reached for the final flux coupler. Hound, trying to be "helpful," shifted his weight to get a better look, and his massive foot came down on a loose power line.
A shower of sparks erupted from the panel. Nullwave yelped, snatching his scorched hand back as the converter died with a pathetic fizzle.
Silence descended, broken only by the drip of acidic water.
Then, Nullwave snapped.
With a raw, staticky scream of pure rage, he launched himself across the cave. He wasn't thinking about escape, or alliances, or the war. He was thinking only of shutting that smug, simplistic faceplate up forever. He slammed into Hound’s broad chest, his momentum knocking the larger bot off-balance and sending them both crashing to the grimy cave floor.
"YOU WRECKER-SPAWNED, IGNORANT, HAMMER-FISTED FOOL!" Nullwave shrieked, clawing at Hound’s neck cables. "I'LL SCRAP YOU FOR PARTS! I'LL-"
Hound, for his part, seemed more surprised than angry. He easily caught Nullwave’s wrists, his grip like iron. The seeker was all sharp angles and furious energy, but Hound was a mountain of solid armor and stubborn will.
"Alright, that's enough of that," Hound grunted, pinning Nullwave’s arms to his sides. The seeker thrashed, his legs kicking uselessly, a stream of invectives and curses so creative they would have made a Quintesson blush pouring from his vocalizer.
Hound endured it for a moment, his optics scanning the frantic, prideful mech beneath him. And then, he got an idea. It wasn't a tactical one, or a strategic one. It was the same kind of simple, direct solution he always defaulted to. If the seeker was going to bluster and fight, he'd apply the "hit it till it works" principle in a different way. A way to short-circuit all that furious, overclocked processing power.
With a deftness that belied his brutish appearance, Hound used one hand to keep Nullwave’s wrists pinned above his head. With the other, he reached down, his fingers finding the almost invisible seam of Nullwave’s interface panel on his lower abdominal plating.
Nullwave froze mid-curse. "W-What are you-? Don't you dare!"
There was a sharp click-hiss as the panel unlatched and retracted, exposing the sensitive, biolight-laced mesh and components beneath. The cool cave air hit the heated array, and Nullwave gasped, a full-frame shudder wracking his slender frame.
"Just applying a little... pressure to the problem," Hound rumbled, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone.
Before Nullwave could form another protest, Hound’s thick, blunt fingers were there, bypassing any further preamble and pressing directly into the slick, overheated valve that had been revealed.
Nullwave’s entire world short-circuited. A choked-off cry, half-outrage, half-overload, escaped him. His back arched violently, his wings scraping against the stone floor. Hound’s fingers were relentless, a rough, unsubtle invasion that was the absolute antithesis of everything Nullwave was. There was no finesse, no delicate calibration; just steady, firm, percussive pressure, stroking and probing deep into his most sensitive inner nodes.
"G-Get... your... filthy... ah!" Nullwave tried to curse, but his words dissolved into static and broken glyphs. His processor, usually a whirlwind of complex calculations and tactical data, was flooded with a cascade of raw, overwhelming sensory input. Every nerve circuit was on fire. His own traitorous valve clenched and fluttered around the intruding digits, calipers cycling down tight, trying to process the brutal, effective stimulation.
Hound didn't speed up or slow down. He maintained that same maddening, consistent rhythm, his other hand still holding Nullwave’s wrists fast. "See?" he said, his voice annoyingly calm. "You just needed to be... persuaded. All that fight, and for what? This is a much better use of your energy."
Nullwave’s optics were wide, unfocused, leaking thin trails of lubricant. He was panting, vents screaming at maximum capacity. He tried to form the words 'slag you,' but what came out was a high-pitched, desperate whine. His pride was in tatters, his body betraying him completely. The fury was still there, a hot coal in his spark, but it was being smothered under a wave of forced, undeniable pleasure. His hips began to stutter, moving in tiny, involuntary thrusts against Hound’s hand, seeking more of that devastating friction.
"P-Pits... I'll... s-see you... in the... the P-Pits..." he stammered, his voice a wrecked, glitching mess.
"Yeah, yeah," Hound murmured, leaning closer, his breath ghosting over Nullwave’s audial. "You tell me all about it later."
He crooked his fingers just so, applying that "hit it till it works" philosophy with devastating accuracy to a deep, internal sensor cluster.
Nullwave’s world went white. A silent scream locked in his vocalizer as his frame seized, overload crashing through him with the force of a tidal wave. Every system rebooted at once. His valve clenched spasmodically around Hound’s fingers, biolights flaring blindingly bright before dimming. He went completely limp, a pliable, twitching heap on the cave floor, his processor reduced to a blissful, staticky hum.
Hound slowly, carefully, withdrew his glistening fingers. He looked down at the utterly undone seeker, a smirk playing on his lip plates. The insults had ceased. Nullwave was just a spent, incoherent mess, trying and failing to remember his own name, while cursing Hound to the pits.
"Told you," Hound said to the silent, recharging form. "Just needed a little percussive maintenance." He wiped his fingers with a soft sigh, the problem, for now, very effectively solved.
Chapter Text
The return to consciousness was a slow, shameful crawl.
System by system, Nullwave’s body reported back online, each diagnostic a fresh wave of humiliation. His internal plating felt hypersensitive, the ghost of Hound’s thick fingers still tracing paths of fire along his neural net. His valve housing ached with a deep, satisfying throb that made him want to scream. Worst of all was the slick, cooling lubricant between his thighs and the distinct, unlatched feeling of his interface panel hanging open, exposing him to the cool, damp air.
He onlined his optics, the world resolving into the familiar, hated sight of the cave’s jagged roof. He didn't move. He simply lay there, processing the absolute annihilation of his dignity. He, Nullwave, master of frequencies and signal disruption, had been reduced to a mewling, overloaded mess by an Autobot troglodyte’s crude, literal interpretation of “hit it till it works.”
And his traitorous frame still hummed with the aftershocks.
A heavy, rhythmic sound reached his audials. A soft, wet, squelching noise, accompanied by a low, steady groan. Slowly, dreading what he would see, Nullwave turned his head.
Hound was sitting a few yards away, his back against the cave wall. His own interface panel was open, and his massive spike was pressurized in his fist. He was stroking himself with the same methodical, relentless pace he’d used on Nullwave. His optics were shuttered, his head tilted back, a look of deep, uncomplicated concentration on his faceplate.
The sight sent a jolt of something hot and sharp through Nullwave’s fuel lines; a nauseating mix of revulsion and a flicker of that same, degrading interest.
Hound’s optics flickered online, meeting Nullwave’s gaze. He didn’t stop. If anything, his pace intensified, his grip tightening.
“See what you started?” Hound grunted, his voice thick with static. “All that squirming and those pretty little noises. Got a mech’s systems all riled up.”
Nullwave’s vocalizer felt rusty. He tried to summon the venom, the scalding insults that were his birthright. What came out was a weak, staticky whisper. “You… desecrated me.”
Hound barked a laugh, the sound echoing in the small space. “Desecrated? Con’, I just applied a universal patch. You were a glitching, shrieking mess. Now you’re quiet. Problem solved.” He gestured with his free hand towards the still-sparking power converter. “Unlike that piece of slag.”
The casual dismissal, the sheer practicality with which Hound viewed what had happened, was a new layer of insult. He wasn’t a rival overcome, or a conquest. He was a… problem that had been fixed.
“I will kill you for this,” Nullwave said, the words gaining strength, laced with a cold fury that was finally overpowering the humiliating buzz of his own pleasure-echoes. He tried to push himself up, but his arms trembled, his systems still unsteady.
“Sure you will,” Hound said, unimpressed. His strokes were becoming faster, more urgent. The wet sound filled the cave. “But first, you’re gonna watch. Consider it part of your… recalibration.”
Nullwave wanted to look away. He commanded his head to turn, his optics to shutter. But he didn’t. He was frozen, mesmerized and horrified by the raw, primal display. It was the absolute pinnacle of Hound’s philosophy: a simple, physical need being met with direct, physical action. No subtlety, no artistry, just brute-force gratification.
Hound’s vents hitched. A low, guttural groan rumbled from his chassis. “Frag, yeah…” he muttered, his optics locking with Nullwave’s. There was a challenge in that gaze, a dare.
Nullwave felt his own valve clench, empty and aching.
With a final, powerful shudder, Hound overloaded. Thick, warm transfluid shot onto his own abdominal plating, dripping down into his seams. He rode the wave with a series of deep, satisfied grunts, his frame slumping back against the wall as he finished.
The cave was silent again, save for the dripping water and Hound’s heavy venting. The smell of ozone and hot metal filled the air.
Hound retracted his spike, his panel sliding shut with a definitive click. He looked over at Nullwave, who still hadn’t moved, his own panel shamefully exposed.
“Feel better?” Hound asked, his tone infuriatingly conversational.
Nullwave finally found the strength to move. With a jerky, furious motion, he slammed his own interface panel closed. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet. He pushed himself to his feet, his legs threatening to buckle, and stumbled to the far side of the cave, putting as much distance between them as possible.
He turned his back to the Autobot, his shoulders rigid with fury and humiliation. The memory of the overload was burned into his processor, a weapon Hound had used against him more effectively than any blaster.
And the most terrifying part, the thought that coiled in his spark like a venomous serpent, was the dawning realization that if Hound were to try that particular “percussive adjustment” again, Nullwave wasn't entirely sure he would fight it.
The silence that followed was a physical presence, thick and suffocating. Nullwave stood rigid, his back to Hound, his sensory panels pulled so tight they ached. Every strut in his body was a tense, vibrating wire. He could feel the phantom pressure of Hound’s fingers, the ghost of that devastating, crude rhythm. His valve still throbbed, a traitorous, hungry pulse that mocked his fury.
He heard the heavy clank of Hound shifting his weight, followed by a soft, satisfied sigh. The sound made Nullwave’s energon run cold.
“Now that we’ve got that out of our systems,” Hound’s voice rumbled, unbearably pragmatic, “maybe we can get back to the converter without you trying to claw my optics out.”
Nullwave didn’t turn. His fists clenched, sharp digits biting into his own palms. Out of our systems. As if he were a faulty coolant line that had been bled. As if the seismic event that had just shattered his pride was a minor inconvenience, now resolved.
“You think this is over?” Nullwave’s voice was low, a deadly whisper that carried across the cave. It lacked its previous shrillness, replaced by something colder, more venomous. “You believe your brutish ‘solution’ has settled anything?”
He finally turned, his movements sharp and precise. His optics burned with a cold, blue fire. “You have made a fatal error, Autobot. You have not pacified me. You have given me a new, singular purpose.”
Hound was watching him, his head tilted, a faint, unreadable expression on his faceplate. He had cleaned the transfluid from his chassis, but the scent still hung in the air, a taunt. “And what purpose is that, Con’?”
“To prove,” Nullwave hissed, taking a single, deliberate step forward, “that you are wrong. Your entire philosophy is a lie. Hitting things does not make them work. It breaks them. And I am not broken.”
He gestured a sharp, contemptuous hand towards the sparking converter. “You will not touch it. You will sit there, in your corner, and you will be silent. You will witness what a mind that is not a blunt instrument can accomplish. And when I have succeeded, when our comms are online and my faction arrives, I will personally ensure you are delivered to the Pits, but not before I explain to every ‘Con on the retrieval team exactly what you did, and how pathetically, simply, you failed to break me.”
It was a hollow threat, and they both knew it. Admitting this to other Decepticons would be social suicide. They wouldn't see a survivor; they'd see a defiled fool. But the fury behind it was real.
Hound just looked at him for a long moment, his optics dimming slightly as if in thought. Then, he gave a slow, deliberate shrug of his massive shoulders. “Fine by me. Less work.” He settled back against the wall, crossing his arms again, the picture of infuriating compliance. “The floor’s yours, professor. Show me how it’s done.”
The condescension was a fresh brand. Nullwave turned his back on him again, stalking over to the converter. His hands were trembling, but he forced them steady, plunging them back into the sparking wreckage. This time, the work was different. It was no longer just about escape. It was a crusade. Every re-soldered connection, every rerouted power flow, was a rebuttal. A silent scream against the memory of Hound’s touch.
He worked in furious silence for hours, his entire being focused on the task. He was acutely, painfully aware of Hound’s presence behind him. He could feel the Autobot’s gaze on his back, on the seams of his armor, on the sensitive joints of his wings. It felt like a physical pressure, a violation almost as intimate as the fingers had been.
He found himself wondering, with a spike of self-loathing, if Hound was remembering the sounds he’d made. The way his valve had clenched. The way he’d begged for the overload even as he cursed the mech causing it.
The thought made him fumble. A spark jumped, scorching his fingertip. He jerked back with a sharp hiss.
“Easy there,” Hound’s voice came, soft and low from the darkness. “Don’t get your wires crossed.”
Nullwave froze. The tone wasn’t mocking. It was… something else. Almost concerned. It was infinitely worse. It implied a connection, a shared experience that Nullwave violently rejected.
“Do not speak to me,” Nullwave snarled, his voice cracking with strain.
He heard Hound shift, a soft scrape of metal on stone. “Suit yourself.”
Nullwave redoubled his efforts, his movements becoming frantic. He was no longer just fixing the machine; he was trying to fix the fracture Hound had created in his own mind. He had to prove his superiority. He had to erase the feeling of those blunt fingers with the flawless precision of his own.
Finally, with a final, delicate twist of a quantum filament, it was done. A steady, healthy hum replaced the erratic sparking. A soft blue light emanated from the converter’s core. A weak, but clear, signal pulsed from the comms unit. It was broadcasting their distress call on a loop.
He had done it. He had succeeded where Hound’s “percussive maintenance” would have only created a molten slag-heap.
He stood, wiping the energon and grime from his hands. He turned, expecting to see defeat, or at least grudging respect, on Hound’s face.
The Autobot was still leaning against the wall, arms crossed. But he was smiling. A small, knowing, infuriating smile.
“Told you you could do it,” Hound said.
The words hit Nullwave like a physical blow. They reframed everything. His triumph, his vindication, was being claimed as a validation of Hound’s own actions. See? My method worked. I agitated you until you performed.
The victory turned to ash in his mouth. He hadn’t won. He had just played his part in Hound’s simple, brutal world.
He stared at the smug, green Autobot, the steady hum of the converter a taunting backdrop to his utter defeat. Rescue was coming. But Nullwave had never felt more stranded.
The silence stretched, thick and toxic. The converter’s steady hum was a mockery of Nullwave’s internal turmoil. He had won. He had proven his intellectual superiority. So why did he feel so utterly, completely defeated?
Hound’s smug, knowing smile was burned into his processor. “Told you you could do it.” The words were a virus, rewriting his triumph into a symptom of Hound’s crude philosophy. His hands, which had performed such delicate work, now felt clumsy and useless. His frame, still humming with the shameful echo of his first overload, felt alien to him.
He paced the length of the cave, a caged animal. Every glance at the Autobot was like a spark to tinder. Hound just sat there, a mountain of infuriating calm, occasionally checking the comms for a response, his demeanor that of a patient mentor waiting for a stubborn student to see reason.
It was the final, unbearable insult.
The rational part of Nullwave’s mind, the part that valued survival, screamed at him to stop. It had learned the consequence of this particular action. But that part was being drowned out by a roaring cascade of fury, humiliation, and a deep, searing need to reassert dominance, to shatter that calm forever.
"You insufferable, lumbering pile of scrap!" Nullwave finally shrieked, his voice cracking. "Your very existence is an insult to engineering! That simpering look on your faceplate; I'll scour it off with acid!"
Hound looked up, a slow, infuriating grin spreading. "There's that spirit. Was wondering where it went."
With a cry of pure rage, Nullwave lunged. It was not a tactical move. It was a primal, desperate strike, all claws and sharp angles, aimed at the center of that smug, green faceplate.
And Hound was ready.
He moved with a speed that belied his size. He didn't block the blow; he caught it. One massive hand closed around Nullwave’s wrist, while the other arm hooked around his waist, yanking him off his feet and spinning him around. Nullwave’s back slammed against Hound’s broad chest, his wings pinioned awkwardly. He felt the click-hiss of his interface panel being forced open.
He braced for the fingers. The rough, invasive familiarity of them.
But they didn't come.
Instead, he felt something else. Something bigger. Hotter. The blunt, massive head of Hound’s spike pressed against his entrance. Nullwave’s red optics widened, his vocalizer emitting a burst of pure, static shock.
"W-Wait-! You'll never-! It won't-!" he stammered, the threats dying in his throat.
Hound didn't wait. He applied pressure. Steady, inexorable, overwhelming pressure.
There was no tearing pain, no searing agony. Instead, there was a shocking, impossible fullness. Nullwave’s valve, designed for elegance and precision, was stretched to its absolute limit. The fit was obscene, vulgar in its impossibility. His delicate calipers were forced to cycle down around an intrusion they were never meant to accommodate, the mesh of his inner walls straining taut. He could feel every ridge, every vein of Hound’s massive spike with terrifying, intimate clarity.
A choked, breathy whimper escaped him. It was too much. It was everywhere. The sheer size meant there was no inch of his inner sensor net that wasn't being stimulated, rubbed, and dominated.
Hound bottomed out, his hips flush against Nullwave’s aft, the seeker’s slender frame completely impaled. He was a cage of heated metal and relentless strength.
"Well?" Hound’s voice was a rumble against his audial. "You gonna tell me how you're going to kill me now?"
Nullwave tried. He really did. "I-I'll... I'll see your spark... ah!... extinguished for this-!" The threat dissolved into a high-pitched whine as Hound withdrew slightly and then thrust back in, the movement rubbing directly over a cluster of deep, hyper-sensitive nodes. His whole body trembled, his legs buckling. Only Hound’s iron grip kept him upright.
Hound chuckled, a low, wicked sound. "You keep talking, but your frame's telling a different story, Con’."
Then the real manhandling began. Hound didn't just thrust; he repositioned him. He turned Nullwave around, pressing him face-first against the cold cave wall, the new angle making the seeker gasp as the spike seemed to reach even deeper. Then he was hauled back, pulled onto Hound’s lap, the change in gravity making the massive length feel even more intrusive. Each new position was a fresh humiliation, a devastating new angle that showcased just how completely he was filled, how his body had been forced to accept what his mind screamed was impossible.
His threats became a broken, glitching litany, interrupted by sharp gasps and helpless whimpers. "Y-You... vulgarian... nngh!... your spike is... is a bludgeon... oh, frag!... I'll... I'll..."
He couldn't finish. His world had narrowed to the devastating, full-body friction, to the embarrassing, wet sounds of their joining, to the overwhelming reality of Hound’s size stretching him to perfection. The prideful seeker was gone, replaced by a trembling, whimpering mess, his valve fluttering wildly around the massive intrusion, his processor short-circuiting on a feedback loop of shock, humiliation, and a pleasure so intense it felt like a system failure.
The whimpers were the worst part. They were high, thin, and utterly involuntary, escaping his vocalizer with every deep, rolling thrust. Each one was a little death of his dignity. He tried to clamp his mouth shut, to bite down on the sounds, but Hound’s relentless, overwhelming presence inside him stole his control.
Hound held him easily with one arm locked around his chest, keeping Nullwave’s back pressed flush against his own chassis. The other hand was splayed possessively over his lower abdominal plating, as if feeling the shape of his own spike stretching the seeker from the outside. The vulgarity of the thought made Nullwave’s helm spin.
“Still… still going to… to scrap you…” Nullwave managed to gasp, his voice strangled and thin. The threat was hollow, pathetic. It was punctuated by a sharp, shuddering intake of vent as Hound shifted his angle minutely, grinding against a particularly sensitive node cluster.
“Sure you are,” Hound rumbled, his voice a vibration that ran through Nullwave’s entire frame. His pace was steady, inexorable, a piston-engine of pure, uncomplicated function. There was no finesse, only overwhelming force and perfect, devastating accuracy. “You keep planning that. I’ll just be over here… providing the motivation.”
He punctuated the sentence with a deeper, sharper thrust that made Nullwave’s optics flare. A broken cry was torn from him, his head falling back against Hound’s shoulder. His claws scrabbled uselessly against the thick arm pinning him.
“It’s… too… much,” he choked out, the admission forced from him not by pain, but by sheer sensory overload. His valve was stretched so wide, every micron of sensitive, biolight-laced mesh was in frantic, screaming contact. It was like being plugged into a raw power source, his circuits overloading one by one.
“Seems like just enough to me,” Hound countered, his grip tightening. He began to move faster, the wet, rhythmic sound of their interface filling the cave, drowning out the hum of the converter. “Seems like it’s exactly what you need. Stops all that useless noise in your head, doesn’t it?”
It did. That was the most horrifying part. The furious, calculating, prideful part of his processor had gone completely offline, replaced by a static hum of pure sensation. He couldn’t form a complex thought, let alone a proper insult. His entire universe was the feeling of being filled, stretched, and rubbed raw with pleasure.
His trembling intensified, becoming full-frame shudders. His valve began to clench and spasm uncontrollably around the massive intrusion, his calipers cycling in a frantic, rhythmic pattern he didn’t command. A low, desperate moan built in his chassis, a sound of utter surrender.
“That’s it,” Hound grunted, his own vents starting to roar. He buried his faceplate in the seam of Nullwave’s neck, his voice a hot, static-laced whisper in his audial. “Let go, you stubborn glitch. Just let it happen.”
The command, delivered in that tone, was the final trigger. The moan broke free, a long, wailing cry of defeat as overload crashed over him. It was a system-wide meltdown that turned his world into a blinding, white-hot void. His valve convulsed violently around Hound’s spike, his back arching, his optics seeing nothing.
Through the haze, he felt Hound’s own frame lock up, a guttural roar echoing in the cave as the Autobot found his own release. The sensation of being filled even further, flooded with the hot rush of transfluid, sent another, secondary shockwave of pleasure-pain through his oversensitive systems.
Hound’s grip loosened, his spike depressurizing and slipping out with a soft, wet sound that was obscenely loud in the sudden quiet.
Nullwave collapsed forward onto his hands and knees, his arms trembling too violently to hold him for long. He was a wreck. His lower half was a mess; Hound’s transfluid, thick and warm, dripped from his oversensitive, twitching valve, mixing with his own copious lubricants and slicking down the inside of his thighs. The evidence of his utter defeat was painted on his own frame, a vulgar, cooling testament.
He tried to speak, to summon one last shred of defiance, but all that emerged was a shaky, staticky exhale. His whole body quaked, his internals feeling scrambled and raw. The proud, snarky Decepticon seeker was gone, replaced by this trembling, dripping mess kneeling on the cave floor.
Hound stood up, his own panel retracting with a definitive click. He looked down at Nullwave, not with cruelty, but with a sort of pragmatic satisfaction.
“See?” Hound said, his voice returning to its infuriatingly normal, conversational tone. “A little direct action. Clears the air every time.”
He didn’t offer a hand. He didn’t need to. The lesson was complete. Nullwave could only kneel there, shuddering, staring at the small puddle of fluids forming beneath him, the hum of the successful converter now a permanent, mocking soundtrack to his humiliation.
The tremor in Nullwave’s limbs was just beginning to subside into a full-system ache when a new, more primal vibration shook the cave. It wasn't the hum of the converter. It was a deep, guttural growl that resonated through the stone beneath his knees.
His helm snapped up, red optics wide with a fresh wave of furious, humiliated disbelief. Of course. Of course this would happen now. His interface panel was still open, his valve exposed, raw, and tender, dripping with the mixed evidence of his defeat. His weapons systems were offline, his frame still re-calibrating from the violent overload. He was at his most vulnerable, his most undignified. It was the perfect time for the universe to deliver one final, crushing joke.
A hulking, multi-limbed creature, all chitinous plating and dripping mandibles, scuttled into the mouth of the cave. Its cluster of eyes glowed with a sickly yellow light, fixing immediately on the two Cybertronians.
Rage, clean and sharp, cut through Nullwave’s humiliation. This he could fight. This he could vent his fury upon. He tried to push himself up, his arms shaking, a snarl forming on his lip plates. He would blast this overgrown insect to atoms. He would-
He never got the chance.
A blur of green and tan moved with shocking speed. Hound, who a moment before had been standing there looking insufferably pleased with himself, was now a whirlwind of controlled violence. He didn't draw his blaster. He simply lunged forward, meeting the creature’s charge head-on.
He caught the beast by two of its striking limbs, his powerful hands gripping with a crunch of chitin. With a grunt of effort, he used its own momentum to heave its massive bulk sideways, slamming it into the cave wall with a sickening crack. The creature screeched, disoriented. Hound didn't pause. He drove a fist, hard as a meteor, directly into its primary optic cluster, silencing the screech into a wet gurgle. He then grabbed its head and, with a final, brutal twist, snapped its neck.
The entire encounter lasted less than ten seconds.
Silence returned, heavier than before, now laden with the smell of ozone and spilled alien viscera.
Hound stood over the twitching corpse, his vents puffing slightly. He turned, his optics finding Nullwave, who was still kneeling, frozen in his aborted attempt to rise. Hound’s gaze swept over him; the trembling limbs, the open panel, the fluids gleaming on his thighs, and then back to the dead beast.
He grunted, wiping a splatter of ichor from his shoulder. "See?" he said, his voice the same infuriatingly calm rumble. "Percussive maintenance."
The phrase, delivered in this new context, was a final, masterful blow. It wasn't just about machinery or interface. It was Hound's entire worldview. A problem appears, and you hit it until it stops being a problem. Whether it was a sparking converter, a prideful seeker, or a hostile alien beast, the solution was fundamentally the same.
Nullwave’s last shred of defiance crumbled. He looked from the efficiently dispatched creature to the mech who had dispatched it, then down at his own debauched and helpless state. He had been outmaneuvered, overwhelmed, and now, protected. The utter completeness of his subjugation was absolute.
His interface panel finally retracted with a soft, shamed click, sealing away the physical evidence but doing nothing to cleanse the feeling. He remained on his knees, not in a position of power, but in a posture of total, undeniable defeat. Hound’s method, in all its brutal, simplistic glory, had worked on every single problem this planet had thrown at them. And Nullwave, for all his intellect and pride, had been the most pliable problem of all.
The silence after the beast’s death was profound. The only sounds were the hum of the converter and the slow, steady drip of fluids from Nullwave’s still-trembling frame. He knelt on the cold stone, the evidence of his violation cooling on his thighs, the raw, tender ache inside him a constant, throbbing reminder. He watched Hound casually wipe alien gore from his knuckles as if he’d just taken out the trash.
A fresh, sharp anger, different from the blinding rage of before, began to simmer. It was a bitter, resentful heat. He had been… used. Thoroughly and efficiently. His body had been treated like a faulty component, hammered into compliance. And now, the mechanic had moved on to the next task without a second glance.
His vocalizer, still scratchy from overuse, sputtered to life. The words came out weak, laced with a static of exhaustion and wounded pride.
“You…” he began, his voice barely a whisper. He cleared his vocalizer, trying to inject some of its old sharpness. “You can’t even… show a bit of care? After… after all that?”
Hound turned, his brow plate furrowing in genuine, infuriating confusion. “Care?”
“You… you rearranged my internal components!” Nullwave snapped, the accusation gaining strength as his embarrassment fueled it. He gestured weakly at his own lower half, at the mess Hound had made of him. “You shoved a… a structural beam in where delicate wiring is meant to be! My calipers are misfiring, my sensor net is raw, and I can still… feel the shape of you! And you just stand there, cleaning off bug guts!”
He was breathing heavily again, optics blazing. It wasn’t about the interface itself anymore. It was about the aftermath. The utter lack of regard. He felt like a tool that had been used and dropped on the floor.
Hound looked at him for a long moment, his head tilted. The confusion didn’t clear; it seemed to deepen. He took a step closer, his large frame looming, but not threateningly. He looked… analytical.
“You’re glitching,” Hound stated, his tone matter-of-fact. “Systems are out of alignment from the strain. Sensor net is overstimulated.” He said it like he was diagnosing a misfiring thruster.
“I am not glitching, you obtuse brute, I’m-!”
Before Nullwave could finish his protest, Hound closed the distance and knelt in front of him. Nullwave flinched back, but Hound’s hands, those same brutal, practical hands, came up; not to strike, but to grip his shoulders, holding him steady.
“Hold still,” Hound ordered, his voice low. “You’re just making it worse.”
One hand slid from his shoulder, down his side, and around to the small of his back. The other pressed firmly against his lower abdominal plating, right over his still-quivering valve housing. Hound’s optics shuttered, his focus turning inward.
Nullwave froze, his spark hammering. “What are you-?”
“Shut up,” Hound said, not unkindly, but with absolute authority. His hands began to apply pressure, a deep, firm massage. It wasn’t gentle. It was a targeted, physical manipulation. He was kneading the strained metal and cabling around the hypersensitive array, forcing the misfiring calipers to reset, urging the overstimulated sensor net to stop screaming and recalibrate.
It was… mortifying. It was also, undeniably, effective. The raw, jangling sensation began to recede, replaced by a deep, spreading warmth as the internal tension was physically worked out. The trembling in his limbs began to ease. A low, involuntary groan escaped him, this one born not of pleasure or pain, but of profound physical relief.
After a minute, Hound pulled his hands away. “There. Realigned.” He stood up, looking down at Nullwave with that same pragmatic expression. “See? You just needed a final adjustment. All better now.”
Nullwave could only stare, speechless. The care he had stupidly, pathetically asked for had been delivered in the only way Hound knew how: as a mechanical repair. He hadn’t been comforted; he’d been fixed. The Autobot had literally manually reset his interface array like tuning an engine.
Hound gave a short, satisfied nod. “Now, stop whining and get up. That signal’s still broadcasting. Our ride will be here soon.”
He turned and walked back to the comms unit, leaving Nullwave sitting on the floor, his body no longer aching, his mind more thoroughly conquered than ever. Hound hadn’t just broken his pride; he had redefined the very concept of care into another form of percussive maintenance, and in doing so, had proven himself right all over again.
For a long, suspended moment, Nullwave simply knelt there, the ghost of Hound’s "realignment" still a firm, warm pressure on his plating. The raw, jangling sensitivity was gone, soothed away by the same brutal practicality that had caused it. The Autobot had diagnosed his post-interface distress as a mechanical fault and had applied a physical patch.
The sheer, staggering, universe-bending stupidity of it all finally hit him.
It wasn't just a low EQ. It was a fundamental absence. A black hole where social understanding should be. Hound’s world was one of cause and effect, of broken things and their fixes. A seeker’s pride? A glitch to be hammered out. A tender, oversensitive valve array? A misalignment to be kneaded back into place.
A sound bubbled up from his intake, a choked, disbelieving sputter. It grew, gaining volume and force, until it erupted into full, helpless laughter. It wasn't a joyful sound; it was the laughter of a mech who had just seen the fundamental operating system of reality and found it to be the most basic, idiotic code imaginable.
He laughed until his vents hitched, until optical fluid gathered at the corners of his eyes. He laughed until his frame shook, not with tremors of overload or humiliation, but with pure, unadulterated incredulity.
Hound, who had been checking the comms unit again, turned at the sound, his brow plate furrowed in that now-familiar look of confusion. "What's so funny?"
That only made Nullwave laugh harder. He wrapped an arm around his middle, shaking his helm, his wings twitching with the force of his mirth. He finally managed to gasp for air, the laughter subsiding into breathless, weary chuckles.
"You," Nullwave wheezed, pointing a trembling finger at the Autobot. "You are really… you are genuinely something else."
He sighed, a long, deep ex-vent that seemed to come from the very core of his spark. The last of his anger, his humiliation, his frantic energy, bled out of him with that sound, leaving behind a strange, hollow calm. He shook his helm slowly from side to side, a wry, defeated smile playing on his lip plates.
"All that bluster… all my grand designs and intricate insults…" he murmured, more to himself than to Hound. "And I get bested by a mech whose entire philosophy of existence could be written on the side of a wrecking ball."
He looked at Hound, truly looked at him. Not as a hated enemy, or a brutal conqueror, but as a force of nature. An avalanche. A law of physics. You didn't get angry at a law of physics. You just learned to work around it. Or, in his case, you got buried by it.
"Percussive maintenance," Nullwave repeated, the words tasting strangely of acceptance. He slowly, carefully, pushed himself to his feet. His legs held. His frame felt… settled. Functional. Repaired. "Of course that's what you'd call it. Of course."
He didn't try to threaten him again. He didn't try to explain the nuances of emotional or physical aftercare. It would be like trying to explain color to a mech who only saw in binary.
Their ride was coming. The war was still waiting. But in this cave, Nullwave felt a chapter close. He had been dismantled, not just physically, but ideologically. And the mech who had done it was too profoundly, monumentally simple to even understand his own victory.
Hound just shrugged, turning back to the console. "Glad you're finally seeing sense."
Nullwave just sighed again, a soft, almost fond sound of utter surrender. "Yes," he said quietly, leaning against the cave wall. "I suppose I am."
The strange, hollow calm that had settled over Nullwave began to curdle into something else, something hot and sharp and desperate. He watched Hound’s broad back as the Autobot monitored the comms, the simple, unthinking certainty in his posture. This was it. The signal was clear. Rescue was imminent. In a matter of hours, perhaps less, they would be back in the war. He would be in the skies, Hound on the ground, and their weapons would be aimed at each other’s sparks.
The thought should have filled him with vengeful anticipation. Instead, it filled him with a frantic, clawing need.
It made no sense. It was the most illogical, irrational impulse of his functioning. But as he stared at the mech who had reduced him to a trembling, laughing wreck, the only thing his processor could latch onto was one, final, blasphemous desire.
He wanted to feel it again.
Before the world snapped back into place, before they resumed their roles as hunter and prey, he wanted that massive, stupid spike inside him one more time. He wanted to be filled by that brutal simplicity, to feel his own complex, overclocked mind short-circuit against Hound’s relentless, physical reality. It wasn’t about pleasure, not entirely. It was about… ownership. A final, visceral branding. A memory to carry into battle that was more powerful than any insult or victory.
His own interface panel clicked open before he’d even fully formed the thought. The sound was soft, but it echoed in the quiet cave like a declaration.
Hound turned, his optics dropping to the revealed, still-glistening valve. His expression didn’t change to surprise or lust, but to that same, infuriatingly pragmatic recognition. He saw a need, and his processor immediately began calculating the solution.
“Can’t help you there, Con’,” Hound said, his voice flat. “My systems are in recharge cycle. Need at least four joor to repressurize after an engagement like that.” He tapped his own abdominal plating. “Structural integrity protocols. Can’t be running around with a compromised frame.”
The clinical, mechanical rejection was the final, masterful twist of the knife. Nullwave wasn’t being denied out of malice or strategy, but because of Hound’s own maintenance schedule. He was being turned down for a fragging because the Autobot’s body had entered a mandatory cooldown period.
Nullwave stared, his valve aching with a sudden, profound emptiness. His spark twisted in a mix of fury, humiliation, and a wild, hysterical urge to laugh again. Of course. Of course it would end like this. Not with a bang, but with a system diagnostic.
He was left standing there, exposed and wanting, his body yearning for a connection the other mech was physically incapable of providing, all because Hound’s own, brutally efficient anatomy had already moved on.
The hum of the converter seemed to grow louder, a mocking chorus to his absurd, unfulfilled desperation. Rescue was coming, and he would face it with the ghost of a fullness he could never have again, and the crushing knowledge that even in this, Hound’s “percussive maintenance” philosophy had won. The problem of Nullwave’s desire had been identified, and simply, effectively, left without a viable solution.
The clinical rejection should have been the end of it. It was the most logical, humiliating full stop imaginable. But something in Nullwave, that last, stubborn shred of pride that refused to be governed by logic or Hound’s maintenance schedules, snapped.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his faceplate, all sharp edges and renewed purpose. His optics, which had been wide with disbelief, narrowed into calculating slits.
“Is that so?” Nullwave purred, his voice dropping from its hysterical pitch into a low, silken murmur. “A recharge cycle? How… inconvenient.”
He took a step forward, then another, his movements no longer a frantic lunge but a deliberate, predatory stalk. Hound watched him, a flicker of wary confusion in his gaze. This was a new script.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Nullwave said, his tone dripping with false sweetness. “I’ve just remembered. I’m quite the engineer.”
Before Hound could react, Nullwave closed the final distance. He didn’t attack. He pressed himself against Hound’s front, his slender fingers splaying over the Autobot’s thick abdominal plating, right over the seam of his interface array.
“And even the most stubborn of systems…” he whispered, his lips close to Hound’s audial, “…can be persuaded to bypass a safety protocol with the right… touch.”
His fingers began to move. This wasn’t a clumsy grope or a furious clawing. It was a precise, knowledgeable manipulation. His digits traced the powerful hydraulic lines that fed the array, finding the pressure points. He applied a firm, rotating pressure to a specific cluster of sensory nodes beside the panel seam, a known, if rarely used, manual override for certain frame types. It was a trick he’d learned in a long-forgotten data-file, a piece of esoteric knowledge he’d never imagined using like this.
He felt the subtle vibration under his fingertips first. A low thrum of power, bypassing the standard recharge command. Then, a heat began to bloom beneath the plating.
Hound grunted, a sound of pure surprise. “What are you-?”
The click-hiss was louder this time, more violent, as if forced. Hound’s interface panel shot open, and his spike, fully pressurized and roaring with energy, sprang forth. It was clearly straining against the system’s attempts to shut it down, the biolights along its length flickering erratically between full power and warning red. It was a testament to Hound’s raw, physical vitality that it had even responded, fighting its own internal protocols.
Nullwave leaned back, a look of triumphant, wicked satisfaction on his face. He looked from the straining, massive spike back to Hound’s stunned face.
“See?” Nullwave said, his pride surging back, hot and fierce. “Not so simple after all, is it?”
He didn’t wait for an invitation or launch an attack. He simply turned, presenting himself, and guided Hound’s painfully pressurized spike to his waiting, already-dripping valve. This time, when he sank down, it was with a deliberate, controlled motion, a conqueror claiming his prize. The stretch was still obscene, still overwhelming, but this time, it was on his terms. He threw his head back with a sharp, victorious cry as he took every inch, feeling Hound’s big frame shudder behind him with the strain of the forced, illicit engagement.
Rescue was coming. But for now, Nullwave had, against all odds, successfully performed his own brand of percussive maintenance, and the roaring engine between Hound’s legs was the sweet, vulgar proof.
The dynamic had shifted. The cave was no longer a prison of his humiliation, but a throne room of his reclaimed agency. Hound was no longer the implacable instructor, but a powerful, shuddering tool in his hands. Nullwave rode him with a fierce, deliberate rhythm, each downward stroke an act of defiance.
He could feel the strain in the massive frame beneath him. Hound’s systems were fighting it, the forced pressurization causing minute tremors that ran through his entire chassis. His vents were roaring, not with passion, but with the strain of a system pushed past its designed limits. A low, guttural groan was torn from him, a sound of pure, overwhelmed sensation, devoid of its usual confident rumble.
“Not so… talkative now… are you?” Nullwave gasped out between deep, rolling thrusts of his own hips. The feeling was astronomical, a searing fullness that threatened to shatter his newfound control, but he clung to it. He was the one setting the pace. He was the one who had forced this reaction, who had rewired the great, simple Autobot into a twitching, overloaded mess.
Hound’s hands came up, gripping Nullwave’s hips, but the grip was different. It wasn’t the confident, manhandling grasp from before. It was desperate, almost clinging. His fingers dug into seams, his own control fraying at the edges as his body was forced into a peak it was not prepared for.
“You… glitching… mad… mech…” Hound managed to grit out, his vocalizer thick with static.
“No,” Nullwave hissed, leaning forward, his own claws scraping down Hound’s chest plating. “I’m an engineer. And you… are a system… I have successfully… overridden!”
He punctuated the declaration by slamming down hard, grinding against the deepest nodes, and that was the final trigger. Hound’s body locked up, a raw, shattered roar erupting from him as his overload was ripped from his frame. It was violent, involuntary, a system crash. Transfluid, hot and copious, flooded Nullwave’s valve, and the sensation, combined with the visceral triumph of feeling Hound completely come apart beneath him, sent Nullwave spiraling into his own climax. His cry was one of victory, sharp and clear.
For a long moment, they were locked together, Hound panting and twitching through the aftershocks, Nullwave sitting regnant upon him, his own frame humming with power and satisfaction.
Slowly, Hound’s spike depressurized, slipping out with a soft, wet sound. Nullwave stood up on slightly shaky legs, his panel retracting with a definitive, proud click. He looked down at Hound, who was slumped against the cave wall, optics dim, his massive frame looking genuinely drained.
A slow, smug smile spread across Nullwave’s face. He had done it. He had taken the Autobot’s own brutal philosophy and turned it back on him, weaponizing it. He had forced a reaction, broken a protocol, and proven that even the simplest system could be hacked with the right knowledge.
He turned his back, walking a few paces away to lean against the opposite wall, mirroring Hound’s earlier posture. The hum of the converter was no longer a mockery, but a fanfare.
“Percussive maintenance,” Nullwave said to the silent cave, his voice dripping with vindicated pride. “It seems it works both ways.” He glanced over at the spent Autobot. “You should get some recharge. You look… depleted.”
The tables had been turned. And as the sound of distant engines finally began to echo in the canyon outside, Nullwave knew that no matter who arrived first, he had already won this battle.
Chapter Text
The distant thrum of engines grew louder, a definitive signal that their little game was over. The moment the sound registered, the entire atmosphere in the cave shifted. The tension, the fury, the predatory triumph; it all melted away like fog under a hot sun.
Hound, who a moment before had been slumped in simulated exhaustion, let out a long, deep chuckle. He pushed himself up from the wall, his movements easy and familiar, and stretched with a groan of protesting hydraulics.
"Slag, Null," he rumbled, his voice now warm and full of open affection, the "brutish" growl entirely gone. "You really drained me on that last one. Forced a system override? A little dramatic, don't you think?" He walked over to where Nullwave stood, a wide, genuine grin spreading across his faceplate.
Nullwave's own smug, victorious posture relaxed. The sharp edges of his demeanor softened into something wry and fond. He reached out, not with a claw, but with a gentle hand, tracing the seam on Hound's chest. "You started it, you big lummox. With your 'percussive maintenance' and your 'universal solutions'. I merely finished it. And I was brilliant."
"You're always brilliant," Hound said, his voice dropping to a soft, intimate tone. He wrapped his massive arms around the slender seeker, pulling him close against his broad chassis in a hug that was both powerful and tender. He nuzzled the side of Nullwave's helm. "But, frag, your scenarios. Making me play a stupid brute who doesn't even know what aftercare is?"
He pulled back just enough to look into Nullwave's optics, his expression a mixture of amusement and mild reproach. "That was the hard part, you know. Standing there after... after all that... when all I wanted to do was this." He tightened his embrace, his hand stroking soothing circles over Nullwave's back struts. "Or to just hold you. Check if you were okay. Maybe clean you up a little. But no. I had to stand there like a clueless glitch while you laughed at me."
Nullwave leaned into the touch, a soft, contented sigh escaping him. The vulnerability he showed now was real, and it was reserved solely for the mech holding him. "It's called role-play, my love. It's not fun if you break character. And you were a wonderfully infuriating brute. So convincingly... dumb."
Hound laughed, a rich, rolling sound that filled the cave. "Hey, I'm not the one who reads all those 'forbidden datatrax' for plot ideas." He gently tilted Nullwave's chin up. "Next time, how about I get to be the brilliant, snarky scientist and you can be the simple-minded ground-pounder?"
"Never," Nullwave sniffed, though his optics sparkled with amusement. "The day I can't out-think you is the day I offline for good." He rested his head back against Hound's shoulder as the sound of transformation echoed just outside the cave mouth. "Our ride's here."
"Back to the war," Hound murmured, his embrace tightening for one last, fleeting moment.
"Back to the war," Nullwave agreed softly. Then he smirked, looking up at his sparkmate. "But just so you know... your 'stupid brute' routine is incredibly attractive."
Hound's grin was all charm; a little roguish, a little rough around the edges, but full of heart. "Good. I'll remember that for next time we're 'stranded'."