Sam/Bumblebee. R. ~3000 words.
Sam thumps his forehead with his fist. “Should’ve bought the Fiesta. It had racing stripes.”
It’s 3:23 AM, Wednesday. Most guys, at 3:23 AM, Wednesday, are asleep. Curled up snug in their beds, dreaming little dreams of sunshine and naked girls and a keg of good draft.
Sam dreams of none of those things, because Sam isn’t dreaming at all. No, he isn’t even in his bed, sleeping. Sam is hanging halfway out his window, dangerously close to snorting his mother’s petunias up his nose, because there’s a seventeen and a half foot robot lounging in his driveway playing Car Wash loud enough to wake the dead.
“Bumblebee!” Sam hisses. He thumps his hands against the windowsill. “Bumblebee! Music off, music off!”
Bumblebee crosses his legs, toe-tapping the beat in thin air. The birdbath narrowly escapes its second accidental robot smashing.
Sam whips around, trips over a pair of tangled jeans flung carelessly on the floor. He careens into the door, yanks it open, flies down the stairs two at a time. The alarm spits Invalid Code at him twice before he punches it in right, then the deadbolt jams because its evil and vicious and it’s conspiring with the door to get back at him for all the times he’s slammed it shut.
Bolting across the grass, Sam shouts, “Bee!” He thunks into Bee’s shoulder, slaps his palm against the metal so hard it stings. “Bee, what’re you doing?”
Bumblebee tilts his head down, thin slats of metal above his eyes bunching together in a frown as the song cuts out. Static crackles, then a blur of voices before a kid’s hopeful, “Dollar to wash your car, mister?”
Sam thumps his forehead with his fist. “Should’ve bought the Fiesta. It had racing stripes.”
“Honey,” comes a voice with a heavy Spanish accent, “don’t talk like that in front of the children.”
This is probably exactly what being crazy is like. Sam blows out a breath. “Just couldn’t wait until morning, huh.”
Propping himself up on one elbow, Bumblebee takes a pointed look around. The streets are deserted, all the houses dark except for the lights above a few doors and lining the walks.
“Guess you got a point.” The summer nights are warm, so the tee and boxers Sam had been sleeping in are fine. He heads for the open garage, slowing when he spies the mess of buckets, rags and sponges strewn out into the drive. The hose sits in a tangled heap a couple feet away. “Nice, Bee. Subtle.”
“There’s a really awesome car wash at the Chevron, y’know. Wax, tire shine, the works.”
“Blasphemer!” the late-night reverend calls. Sam just shakes his head and starts to fill one of the buckets with water, hoping it’s loud enough to muffle his laugh when Jermaine Jackson croons, “Ain’t nothing like the real thing, baby,” because the one thing Bumblebee doesn’t need is encouragement.
Sam trudges over with two buckets, cold water sloshing down his legs. He sets both down with a grunt and goes back to dig out the specialty car soap his mom had brought home from the store one day, putting it in the garage with a proud smile and, “I might not have to feed him but I can darn well make sure he’s taken care of.”
“If she could feed you greens, she would, Bee,” Sam says, squirting some of the violently yellow gel into one of the buckets to start. “I think she’s going to start lobbying for Autobot adoption.”
Instead of another quippy song, Bee makes a noise sort of like a laugh. It’s rough with static and still somehow fond. He’s a machine, through and through down to the last bolt, but there’s more warmth to him than some people Sam’s met.
“Okay.” Sam smacks his hands together. “Ready to go.”
Bumblebee tucks his hands beneath his head, a contented sigh rippling through him as gears shift and settle. “Agent,” says a guy from an old radio drama, “begin your mission!”
Sam says, “Uh.”
It takes a moment for Bumblebee to lift his head, the bright blue of his eyes flickering black in a slow blink.
“That’s great, I like that. My car, master of silent sarcasm.” Sam raps his knuckles against Bumblebee’s knee. “Transform already.”
The radio blurs through dozens of songs before it switches off. Bumblebee leans back up on his elbow, shoulders slumping along with the frustrated crackle of his voice. He points one gleaming metal finger at the dry sponge in Sam’s grip, then at himself.
“Yeah, I know, I got it already. That’s what the sponge is for, so if- Oh. Oh. Like, like this, huh?” Sam says, waving the sponge to encompass Bumblebee’s casual sprawl. “Okay, that’s not going to be awkward at all.”
Satisfied, Bumblebee settles back down. The radio sparks to life with, “Too dirty to clean my act up, if you ain’t dirty, you ain’t here to party,” and cuts out as Bumblebee thrusts a fist in the air.
“Your taste in music is so sad.” Smacking his hands again, Sam lets out a slow breath. “Okay.”
Starting at Bumblebee’s feet just seems weird. The fact that his car even has feet is weird; he’s still waiting for the morning where he wakes up and it stops being weird. Maybe he should go with hands first, except they’re both curled up under Bumblebee’s head. It just seems plain rude to wash the big guy’s face like he’s a toddler.
“You’re not ticklish or anything, are you?” Sam asks, stuffing the sponge into the bucket. “Prone to flailing? I think I should know these things if I’m going to crawl all over you.”
“Toucha toucha toucha touch me-”
“I can’t help myself, I love you and nobody else,” then a click and, “Ain’t too proud to beg, sweet darlin’.”
“You are so totally inappropriate it actually makes me proud. Slightly mortified, but proud.” Before he thinks too much more about it, Sam slaps the sponge against Bumblebee’s thigh and starts scrubbing.
In his robot form, Bumblebee always seems so much bigger. Ratchet had tried to explain it once, which turned into a lecture about hydraulics and composite space and Sam cried uncle as soon as the word ‘fluid’ cropped up. He’s seen what Bumblebee and the others leak when damaged and he tries very, very hard not to equate it with blood and bleeding. It’s just easier to watch them fight that way.
Sam sticks to the bright yellow plating at first, not sure about the damage soapy water and his probing fingers could do to the delicate-looking wring he can see strung in the chinks between. He squeezes the sponge against a scratch in the paintjob, tiny rivulets streaming down Bumblebee’s leg, and there’s the low hum again, a slight quiver.
“Feels good, huh?” Sam says, not really thinking that one through until Bumblebee’s rasped agreement. By then it’s too late, his mouth is off and running without him, a tumble of, “So, that’s interesting, right? I mean, I know you can feel pain–is feel the right word there, maybe a different word, like process, process pain–but no, nope, didn’t really consider the full implications there.”
“You make me feel,” Aretha sings, “you make me feel like a natural wo-”
“Thanks for that.” With a weird little flutter in his gut, Sam wrings up the sponge and gets back to it. The water gets all over the place this time, suds streaming over the edges of metal that make up Bumblebee’s knee. Sam chases after the biggest blob, trying to catch it before it screws something royally up.
“You can’t hurt me, Peter Parker!” comes the Goblin’s crazy cackle.
“Oh.” Sam extracts his hand from the tangle of wires, not really but definitely deliberately letting his fingers brush over the tiny parts. “Good, good to know.”
Clearing his throat, Sam says, “So, your voice modulator thing. Still on the fritz.” Stretching up on his toes, he swipes at a patch of greyish mud on the Camaro’s grille, now the slanted side of Bumblebee’s chest. “Not that your capacity for conversation is in any way diminished by the sole use of Saturday morning television, but maybe you should have Ratchet take another look at it.”
After realising he’s just pushing dirty water around, Sam goes to rinse the sponge. When he turns back around, Bumblebee’s fingers are fanned out like steps.
It’s no big deal. Bumblebee’s like an oversized post-modern recliner, anyway. He can’t even count the number of times he’s been at the bluffs, sprawled out on Bumblebee’s hood or perched on his shoulder, rambling on about school stuff while the sun slowly set.
Just because he knows that whatever Bumblebee is made of is sensitive enough to feel the touch of his hand shouldn’t make a difference now.
“Humans, huh,” Sam says, grabbing onto a small dip in Bumblebee’s armour for balance. He really, really hopes Bumblebee’s given up checking his vitals every five seconds, because he honestly doesn’t want to have to explain why his pulse is skittering around panicked-rabbit fast. “Give us an inch and we’ll walk all over you.”
Sam recognises the pounding beat long before the lyrics snake into the humid night air. A slight shift of the fingers he’s climbing sends him tumbling to his knees on Bumblebee’s chest. His wet hands skid over the metal, the heavy bass vibrating straight up his arms into his own chest, knocking his heartbeat off kilter.
“You let me violate you.”
“Hey,” Sam starts, but the volume cranks up a notch and he shuts the hell up before his parents open a window just in time to see him sprawled all over his giant alien robot with Reznor’s low rasp of, “You let me desecrate you,” to set the mood.
“Bumblebee.” Sam levels a stern–shaky–finger at Bumblebee’s face. “Stop it.”
Bumblebee’s eyes glow brighter in the shadows. “You let me penetrate you,” and then silence broken only by the hushed whirr of Bumblebee’s systems and Sam’s own harsh breathing.
“Okay.” Sam swallows a couple times, coughs, can’t quite clear the lump out of his throat. He pats Bumblebee’s chest. “Alright.”
“Sam,” Bumblebee says, the unfamiliar metallic scrape of his voice making Sam jolt, fumble the sponge.
“Look, okay, look.” Sam holds up both hands in what he hopes is interpreted as a placating gesture and not some really messed up surrender to whatever the hell it is Bumblebee’s playing at here, never mind the swift swoop-clench in his gut. “We’ll call that a- a- an anomaly, okay? My car is not trying to seduce me, because that’s just crazy, and I am not crazy. At least, I don’t think I am. But then that’s what crazy people say, oh my god.”
Catching his breath, Sam says, “Is it? I mean, are you?”
Bumblebee touches the tip of one finger very carefully to Sam’s bare thigh. An electric spark zips under Sam’s skin, drives a soft, surprised noise out of his throat. It goes straight to his cock like he’s the one with wires instead of veins.
Music cuts in again, volume low and intimate, a different song this time. Sam barely manages to throw off the daze before another pulse of something goes through him.
“I got you twisted round my finger, crawling round my legs,” pours out over the shift-click of hydraulics. The rest of Bumblebee’s fingers come to rest against Sam’s body, pushing aside his shirt to get at bare flesh, light his fucking nerves on fire. “The emptiness, the craziness, satisfy this hungriness-”
“How,” Sam chokes out, hands turned to claws scratching at Bumblebee’s paint. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking.
The metal seam just above Sam splits, lets the pulsating glow of Bumblebee’s spark spill out over his fingers. It’s blue like Bumblebee’s eyes, crackling with so much energy the hairs on Sam’s body stand up like static cling.
“Darling, how would it feel?”
Between rushed, shallow breaths, Sam says. “You pick songs with that word a lot.”
Bumblebee urges him closer to it, the high whine of his processors finally making themselves heard in the quiet. “Touch,” his voice grates.
Sam scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip, wipes it dry on the back of his hand. He needs to get a grip is what he needs to do. He’s a teenager, mowing the law gets him hard, it’s not like it’s a big deal.
Bumblebee’s spark flares in time with Sam’s frantic pulse, matches the wave of pleasure that uses up every scrap of air in his lungs.
He wants to ask if it’ll be alright but doesn’t; Bumblebee wouldn’t let him if he shouldn’t. He wants to ask what the fuck is going on but doesn’t; it’s a stupid question anyway.
All he does his touch the very tips of his fingers to the bright blue sphere and he’s slammed back against Bumblebee’s hand, shuddering at the spike of pure sensation. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt, maybe what it’d be like to kiss a live wire, walk straight into the sun. He’ll have bruises for days and days to remind him of what he’s just done.
Bumblebee rasps, “Again.”
“Gonna fry my brain, holy shit, Bee, holy shit.”
Sam knows he’s trembling as he reaches out again and he can’t do a damn thing about it. He grits his teeth, his hand hovering only a few inches above the spark and Bumblebee waits silently, his anticipation thickening the air, making it crackle.
“Oh holy shit,” Sam says, and presses his palm flat to what he can’t help but think of as Bumblebee’s heart.
Sam has a few seconds to register the high-pitched grind before his mind whites out. For one trembling, stupefying moment there’s nothing, then like a house of cards or an atom bomb it all falls down on him. He can feel the press of Bumblebee’s fingers, the hard metal beneath his knees, his heart against his ribs and every single piece of himself down the very last molecule.
The world snaps back into being just in time for him to gasp, “Fuck,” feel Bumblebee’s hand supporting his weight, thumb curled right around his hips to give him something to grind against as he rides it out, still shuddering long minutes later from aftershocks stronger than some orgasms he’s had.
The night’s darker with Bumblebee’s spark tucked safely away. He tries to pick himself up, not really all that surprised when his legs refuse to cooperate, rubbery and useless. Dimly, he hears, “Take my breath away,” and can’t even make his limbs work long enough to give Bumblebee a half-hearted slap.
“Do the others know they saddled me with a pervert?”
Bumblebee’s expression turns pensive, as if he’s honestly considering it. The radio clicks on for a brief, triumphant, “Yes!” and scattered catcall whistles.
Slick metal edges dig in just a little as Bumblebee shifts his grip–always will, no matter how careful he is. He sets Sam down at the edge of the grass and slides into the familiar, sleek lines of the Camaro. Even as fucked out of his mind as Sam is right now, he’ll never get over watching that happen. Nothing as big as Bumblebee is, all metal and wires, should be that graceful.
The door pops open, seat rocked forward so Sam can crawl straight into the back. Inside is cool, a relief on Sam’s overheated skin, and quiet until Bumblebee slips out into the street, “Slow ride, take it easy,” flowing out of the speakers.
Sam stretches out on his back, arms under his head for a pillow. “You know,” he says, and the volume drops to little more than background rhythm. “I’m trying really, really hard not to think of the fact that I’m inside you now, and it’s not working. Which I hope you realise is all your fault.” And as weird as it is, he can’t help himself from stroking a hand over the seatback, what used to a proud, possessive gesture over his kickass car no less either of those things, but forever changed since the first night he saw Bumblebee transform.
The fact that he thought he was going to die that night is probably significant, too.
“No one else is ever going to sit their ass down on your seat, either, you giant alien perv. Especially my mother. I don’t even want to know.” Sam gives the seat a pat. “Also your fault.”
“Don’t blame me, for falling in love with you.”
Sam rolls his eyes, trying to ignore his stomach’s hard lurch. For a soldier and a spy, Bumblebee has a smart mouth on him. Maybe he should drop Ratchet an email in the morning, invite him out for coffee and a motor oil or something, and take another stab at muddling through a long lecture on Autobot anatomy. That wouldn’t turn into an awkward interspecies sex talk, no, not at all.
He’ll get Bumblebee to swing back to the house near dawn instead, throw some clothes in a bag and grab some cash, leave a note for his parents so they won’t worry. Take a road trip with his best friend like any other normal guy.
The hush of tires on pavement is like a lullaby, and he tells Bumblebee his plan and the disaster that was the Family Trip to Iowa in a sleepy mumble. There’s a long stretch of quiet after he’s done, and he asks, “What’cha think, Bee?”
“Let the good times roll, won’t you let the good times roll,” is just the answer he wanted.