A/N: Alright, here is the first of the expanded song-meme drabbles, in no particular order. Beta'd by VAWitch.

Summary: Sunstreaker hates Hot Rod. Hates him with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns.

Second to None – Styles of Beyond ft. Mike Shenodah

That smug-faced little glitch was asking for it. He'd been asking for it from the moment that he stepped off of the transport with Ultra Magnus's crew, and Sunstreaker was itching to give it to him. Something about him just rubbed Sunstreaker raw, and the yellow Lamborghini resolved to teach him a lesson.

And when Hot Rod finally got fed up with his baiting, Sunstreaker accepted his offer of a spar with an oil-thirsty grin.

He could feel Ratchet's disapproval thrumming through their bond alongside Sideswipe's excitement. He knew that the medic didn't understand his desire to pound the smarmy little slag-eater into the ground, just as he also knew that Ratchet wouldn't try to stop him so long as he didn't try to kill the kid. He glanced across the training room to see his bondmate standing beside his brother. Ratchet was watching him with arms crossed and a frown on his face while Sideswipe was practically bouncing on his feet, as wound up as his twin.

Ah, and there was Hot Rod, right on time, followed by the annoying green triplechanger and the garishly pink femme. His opponent's optics were dark and determined; all three of them looked angry.

There was a veritable crowd gathered in the training room to watch the match; anticipation hung in the air, and Sunstreaker drew a deep draught into his intakes, tasting it. He grinned, and knew that he looked downright dangerous. He caught several admiring expressions among the spectators, especially the new mechs Ultra Magnus had brought, and thought that it was almost a pity he was already spoken for. Angry jealousy rose up in that part of his spark that belonged to Ratchet, and he sent amused reassurance back. The medic subsided with all of the ill grace of an irritated cat, still hissing and spitting but at least somewhat mollified. Sideswipe laughed, and Sunstreaker heard the clang of metal on metal and his brother's snickering protest as the ambulance backhanded him.

He returned his attention to the sparring ring and the autumn-colored mech that had stepped into it; he almost couldn't help the self-satisfied smirk curling the corners of his mouth. Hot Rod saw it and scowled.

"Don't let him get to you, Roddy," the triplechanger said grimly. "If you lose your cool, he'll have you." Sunstreaker sneered; like that little bit of advice was going to save Hot Rod at this point in the game. Hot Rod just nodded tersely, never taking his optics off of Sunstreaker.

The two of them squared off suddenly, both sinking down into a combat-ready crouch—and it immediately became apparent to Sunstreaker that this youngling was no master at hand-to-hand. He grinned, and Ratchet warned him again not to kill the kid. He could feel him still fretting in the back of his mind.

He blocked the medic out.

Sunstreaker suddenly decided that he had to give the younger mech some credit—he used the tiny moment of distraction, when his opponent's attention was on his bondmate and not the match, to attack. Primus, but the kid was quick, too—he heard the crowd collectively gasp when he barely avoided a kick that would have knocked his dental plating loose—but skill and experience were on Sunstreaker's side. He could wait him out.

So at first he ducked and dodged, always just out of Hot Rod's reach, tantalizingly close but not close enough to deck, letting the youngster play himself out. Soon Hot Rod was snarling, furious that he was incapable of even laying a finger on that shiny yellow plating.

"Not so hot, are you, Hot Rod?" Sunstreaker was unable to resist taunting, and the younger mech flew into a fury at the words.

"I'll show you hot," he hissed, and somehow he managed to plow a fist into Sunstreaker's nose. The yellow mech stumbled back, and both of them stared at each other in shock for a moment that Hot Rod had actually landed a blow. Sunstreaker sneered again, the effect somewhat ruined by the energon beginning to trickle down his face from ruptured capillaries. Then, with an angry battle-cry, the Lamborghini leaped into action, and the fight was finally joined in earnest.

It did not last long after that.

Hot Rod learned, intimately and to his great regret, why Sunstreaker was considered one of the best melee fighters in the Autobot army. He was completely and utterly outclassed; every time he got back up to fight, Sunny beat him down again, until he eventually decided that maybe it was just better to stay down than to take more punishment from those yellow fists.

He lay face-down on the floor of the sparring ring, just trying to regain his senses, when one big yellow foot toed him over onto his back. He gasped as he landed on his dented spoiler; Sunstreaker snorted in disdain.

"You done?" he asked bluntly—Hot Rod didn't have the energy to do more than nod. "Thought so," Sunstreaker said smugly. The tone made him angry again, though Hot Rod couldn't help but feel a little smug himself, despite having come out the worse in this encounter: Sunstreaker bore his fair share of dents and scrapes as well, having been unable to come away completely unscathed fighting in such close quarters. The yellow mech's attention turned to their audience.

"Any other takers?" Sunstreaker purred, turning in circles to pin each mech in the training room with his vicious stare. He bared dental plates when no one stepped up, looking feral with the battlelust coursing through his systems.

"I thought so," he concluded smugly after completing his circuit, ignoring the disgusted death-glare that the triplechanger and the femme gave him as they helped Hot Rod to his feet.

"Sunstreaker, that's enough," Ratchet said bluntly, earning himself a glower. "Don't look at me like that, and both of you report to medbay immediately." He paused, and then added, "And if I catch either of you provoking the other again," he gave Sunstreaker a pointed look, "I will not hesitate to put the offender in the brig. Am I clear?" He crossed his arms over his chestplate and waited.

"Yessir," Hot Rod mumbled, wilting under the CMO's stare. Sunstreaker merely nodded curtly.

"Alright then," Ratchet announced. "Let's get you two idiots cleaned up, and the rest of you, clear out!"

Sunstreaker began to follow his bondmate without looking back—and was stopped by a hand on his arm. He whipped around to say something scathing to the moron who'd dared touch him, but the words died in his vocalizer when he realized that it was Hot Rod.

Before he could get properly outraged, however, the younger mech said, "I've never seen a mech move like that before."

"Of course not," Sunny said coldly.

"I was wondering how I could learn to fight like that—like you."

Sunstreaker stared.

And then he walked off. Hot Rod hurried after him.

"Seriously—I've always heard that you're one of the best we've got! Surely you know—"

The yellow warrior stopped abruptly and shoved at the kid's chestplate with the flat of his hand. "Look, brat, do you mean it?" he growled. Hot Rod nodded energetically.

"I would give anything to be able to fight like that!" he replied fervently.

Sunstreaker regarded him silently for a moment, and then—"Alright. Meet me, day after tomorrow, after our shifts are over, and I'll show you," and then he strode off again, leaving Hot Rod gaping after him.