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shadow_vectorTitle: Feeding
Rating: NC-17
Verse: IDW, MTMTE
Characters: Rung, Sparkeater
Warnings: noncon, sticky, sparkvore, bdsm
Other Notes: yeah idek. Goes WILDLY AU from MTMTE 3. It's porn. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
competition_fun's last round where it came in a resounding dead last. \o/
Rung adjusted the angle of his chair to the patient chaise just so. There. Not quite as nice as his office on Kimia, and he especially missed the window, but still, this was nice: brightly lit, clean and tidy. Even the small dings and scrapes on the metal paneling were natural wear, a sort of shabby charm that kept it from looking too sterile. He nodded to himself, satisfied. Yes. Nice.
A tap at the door.
Rung turned. “I’m sorry, I’m not quite ready for patients yet.” He had to set up a database, first. When Cyclonus had knocked over his box, he’d lost his template for patient files. It wouldn’t take too long to reconstruct—he’d filled out the form thousands of times—but he wanted to have it ready.
Another tap, more insistent. Almost a rap, or really, all right, now it was a pounding.
And it hit him. Maybe it was someone caught outside. Rodimus had ordered them to take shelter from some menace on the ship.
Rung moved to the door. “One klik.” The doorpad blatted at him, refusing to unlock. He’d probably just entered the code wrong, probably used Kimia’s lock code, that was all. He entered again. Another buzz of denial. The pounding grew more intense—frantic, perhaps. “You really shouldn’t be out there. It’s dangero--!!”
The door buckled, caving inward in a scream of metal, and then burst, the panels ripping apart like petals.
And…IT stood there. Tall, slavering, its face contorted, belly bare of armor, only showing a tank which bubbled with—oh Primus were those sparks?
Rung took a step back, clutching his hands over his spark chamber.
The thing stepped into the room, metallic cables pushing through the door. Its feet clanged on the floor, some hideous green liquid pattering down off its chassis. And the smell. It was like ozone and corrosion, sweeping forward over Rung as he backpedaled.
“Oh. Oh. Oh dear. Uhhh…we can talk this out?”
A tentacle whipped forward, raking against the wall as it loomed forward, giving a gurgling hiss.
“I can see you have, well…issues. Body image….uh…lisp? Hygiene. I assure you we can work through them!” Rung squeaked as his hips bumped into a table. He flailed, flustered, snatching up a sketchpad. “Art therapy! You want to try some? Look! You want to draw, right? Express yourself? Just sort of doodle out what you’re feeling.” He held the pad out between them, managing a nervous grin.
The sparkeater lashed out with one jagged, half-armored claw, tearing the pad from Rung’s nerveless fingers. It held it up between them and then crushed it, slowly, so that Rung could hear the glass crackle, the circuits spark and snap. The sickly green optics glittered with malevolent glee.
“Uh, all right. All right. Pe-performance art, I suppose. It seems to me you’re very…angry.”
A fist banged on the table beside Rung, jarring through him.
“I…er,” Rung twitched, mumbling to himself. “Right. When in doubt, ask. Basic therapeutic discourse.” He raised his voice, trying to use his Most Professional Tone. “So, what is it you need?”
The thing hissed, stepping in closer. Rung felt a hot splash on his chassis, green and stinging like acid. “I…please don’t kill me?”
A burbling, blupping sound that might have been a laugh, the hinged mouth pulled into a parody of a leer as the hand pushed Rung back, shoulders down onto the table.
Rung squeaked, trying to flatten himself into the table.
The thing leaned over, and he could feel the heat from that spark-filled tank against his lower body. The glass was warm and he could feel a roiling sensation against his armor. He tried to push back, hands scrabbling at the chassis. Fatigued metal crumbled under his fingers, little crumbs of it pelting down onto him before his wrists were grabbed by the tentacles, pinioned by the long spikes through the wrists, and stuck into the table. He screamed, wriggling, pain shooting up his wrists in green-hot lines as the thing grinned down at him, as though his scream—or the pain—excited it.
It slithered down his frame, acid stinging a trail down his chassis, tracing along the orange panels of his chassis vest, stopping, the mandible clicking excitedly, at the blue orb in his chassis.
Rung shivered in terror a the thing scraped its dentae over the rim of the heavy window to his spark orb. He was going to die. On a ship full of warriors and fighters, he was going to die, alone, a terrible death, devoured by a creature so hideous its brain module was exposed, the back of its head blasted open in what Rung could only infer was some failed attempt to kill it.
This was awful. Beyond awful.
A tentacle slid down his legs, jerking his white thighs apart, the four jagged talons raking over his pelvis in some parody of a caress. He twitched, hips bumping against the table, trying to move away from the too-intimate touch. The thing gave another gleeful chitter, green optics searching his face.
Emotion. Of course. It wanted some sort of emotional response. It devoured sparks, feeding on a mech’s emotional core. And it had fed, recently: Rung could see the undecayed orbs of sparks swimming in the yellowish plasma. It had gorged itself and was now after…something else.
Something else a bit too obvious, suddenly, as the thing snickered, and a panel whipped aside on its pelvis, revealing a thick, greenlined spike, turgid with lust, dripping with greenish slime.
No. Oh no. No. NO.
Tentacles scrabbled over his orange armor, popping open his interface hatch with violence, leaving him gasping with pain, struggling to move on the table. His fingers clenched, helplessly where they were pinned to the table, as the thing shifted, rubbing the slimed spike over his equipment covers. The spike was cold, sending shivers through Rung’s systems, even as the rubbing became more insistent, scraping over the delicate metal.
The thing chortled, lifting its head, green optics making contact with Rung’s blue, and he felt something almost reach inside him, tugging at his brain module, but gently, gentler than the touches on his body. His valve cover snicked aside, against his control.
Rung whimpered as the cold spike pushed in, his valve sensors burning with the acid from the slime. The sparkeater thrust inside him, driving the spike home, jamming against the top of his valve. He cried out, arching up, his chassis orb bumping into the greenish metal.
The sparkeater humped its spinal struts, folding itself nearly in half, the ribstruts flaring, thusting into Rung’s valve in slow, hard jabs, battered fingers clawing at the orb. Rung could feel desire pouring from it, hunger, a need deeper than lust.
Another pull at his brain module, and he felt his spark armor retracting. The thing was playing with him, drawing him out, feeding on his fear, the sensations he didn’t want to feel as the spike built charge in his valve, sending unwelcome but delicious tremors through his sensors.
The sparkeater gave a chitter of triumph, as the armor edged aside, dragging its long glossa over the exposed spark chamber, agile and eager. Rung felt an exhalation of hot, fetid air over his spark chamber, slow, in time to the long thrust in his valve. He was on the brink of death the verge of dying, his sentience eradicated, his emotions made food for this thing...
...and it was almost ecstasy. He sucked in a vent, relaxing as much as he could into it. Tension solves nothing, resistance to reality was, he knew one of the chief sources of depression among mechs. He sighed, surrendering to it, to the rising charge in his valve, to the delicate touches of the claws along his sides, his thighs, to the probing little licks over his spark chamber, even to the pain, hot and sharp, from his punctured wrists, the way he could feel energon bubble up around the long spikes, dribbling down his narrow wrists.
The thing gave a sucking sound, and he felt his spark tug at him, a thousand little roots of energy protest, stretching, on the brink of agony, even as he felt his valve clutch over the thrusting spike, squeezing at it almost frantically, overload tearing through him, transmuting the pain, the charge and the terror combining to a dizzying sort of ecstasy.
At least, Rung thought dimly, it doesn’t hurt. At least this isn’t awful. At least I’m not sobbing, begging, suffering. At least….
The world went green, and yellow, and white, a crashing torrent that swept Rung away.
So this is what it feels like to die? I wonder why we’re so afraid.
”Hey. Eyebrows.” The voice floated dimly over Rung’s awareness. It took a long time to make the words make sense, make the world make sense. He blinked, forcing himself to awareness. Name: Rung. Location: The Lost Light. Last memory:…
”Gah!” He jerked up, optics flaring wide, to find the blue newcomer, Skids, kneeling over him. He clutched over his chassis, covered with long scratches, his wrists clotted pink, greenish gold leaking from his valve. Oh frag. It had happened. It had happened. But he wasn’t dead?
“It’s all right,” Skids said. “That thing ain’t coming back.” He moved, handing a rag to Rung. “Lucky you survived.”
”I don’t feel lucky,” Rung said. He felt… Numb. Confused. Sore. Anything but lucky.
”Yeah, that’s kinda how it works,” Skids said. “C’mon. Let’s get you to Medibay.”
Rating: NC-17
Verse: IDW, MTMTE
Characters: Rung, Sparkeater
Warnings: noncon, sticky, sparkvore, bdsm
Other Notes: yeah idek. Goes WILDLY AU from MTMTE 3. It's porn. For
competition_fun's last round where it came in a resounding dead last. \o/Rung adjusted the angle of his chair to the patient chaise just so. There. Not quite as nice as his office on Kimia, and he especially missed the window, but still, this was nice: brightly lit, clean and tidy. Even the small dings and scrapes on the metal paneling were natural wear, a sort of shabby charm that kept it from looking too sterile. He nodded to himself, satisfied. Yes. Nice.
A tap at the door.
Rung turned. “I’m sorry, I’m not quite ready for patients yet.” He had to set up a database, first. When Cyclonus had knocked over his box, he’d lost his template for patient files. It wouldn’t take too long to reconstruct—he’d filled out the form thousands of times—but he wanted to have it ready.
Another tap, more insistent. Almost a rap, or really, all right, now it was a pounding.
And it hit him. Maybe it was someone caught outside. Rodimus had ordered them to take shelter from some menace on the ship.
Rung moved to the door. “One klik.” The doorpad blatted at him, refusing to unlock. He’d probably just entered the code wrong, probably used Kimia’s lock code, that was all. He entered again. Another buzz of denial. The pounding grew more intense—frantic, perhaps. “You really shouldn’t be out there. It’s dangero--!!”
The door buckled, caving inward in a scream of metal, and then burst, the panels ripping apart like petals.
And…IT stood there. Tall, slavering, its face contorted, belly bare of armor, only showing a tank which bubbled with—oh Primus were those sparks?
Rung took a step back, clutching his hands over his spark chamber.
The thing stepped into the room, metallic cables pushing through the door. Its feet clanged on the floor, some hideous green liquid pattering down off its chassis. And the smell. It was like ozone and corrosion, sweeping forward over Rung as he backpedaled.
“Oh. Oh. Oh dear. Uhhh…we can talk this out?”
A tentacle whipped forward, raking against the wall as it loomed forward, giving a gurgling hiss.
“I can see you have, well…issues. Body image….uh…lisp? Hygiene. I assure you we can work through them!” Rung squeaked as his hips bumped into a table. He flailed, flustered, snatching up a sketchpad. “Art therapy! You want to try some? Look! You want to draw, right? Express yourself? Just sort of doodle out what you’re feeling.” He held the pad out between them, managing a nervous grin.
The sparkeater lashed out with one jagged, half-armored claw, tearing the pad from Rung’s nerveless fingers. It held it up between them and then crushed it, slowly, so that Rung could hear the glass crackle, the circuits spark and snap. The sickly green optics glittered with malevolent glee.
“Uh, all right. All right. Pe-performance art, I suppose. It seems to me you’re very…angry.”
A fist banged on the table beside Rung, jarring through him.
“I…er,” Rung twitched, mumbling to himself. “Right. When in doubt, ask. Basic therapeutic discourse.” He raised his voice, trying to use his Most Professional Tone. “So, what is it you need?”
The thing hissed, stepping in closer. Rung felt a hot splash on his chassis, green and stinging like acid. “I…please don’t kill me?”
A burbling, blupping sound that might have been a laugh, the hinged mouth pulled into a parody of a leer as the hand pushed Rung back, shoulders down onto the table.
Rung squeaked, trying to flatten himself into the table.
The thing leaned over, and he could feel the heat from that spark-filled tank against his lower body. The glass was warm and he could feel a roiling sensation against his armor. He tried to push back, hands scrabbling at the chassis. Fatigued metal crumbled under his fingers, little crumbs of it pelting down onto him before his wrists were grabbed by the tentacles, pinioned by the long spikes through the wrists, and stuck into the table. He screamed, wriggling, pain shooting up his wrists in green-hot lines as the thing grinned down at him, as though his scream—or the pain—excited it.
It slithered down his frame, acid stinging a trail down his chassis, tracing along the orange panels of his chassis vest, stopping, the mandible clicking excitedly, at the blue orb in his chassis.
Rung shivered in terror a the thing scraped its dentae over the rim of the heavy window to his spark orb. He was going to die. On a ship full of warriors and fighters, he was going to die, alone, a terrible death, devoured by a creature so hideous its brain module was exposed, the back of its head blasted open in what Rung could only infer was some failed attempt to kill it.
This was awful. Beyond awful.
A tentacle slid down his legs, jerking his white thighs apart, the four jagged talons raking over his pelvis in some parody of a caress. He twitched, hips bumping against the table, trying to move away from the too-intimate touch. The thing gave another gleeful chitter, green optics searching his face.
Emotion. Of course. It wanted some sort of emotional response. It devoured sparks, feeding on a mech’s emotional core. And it had fed, recently: Rung could see the undecayed orbs of sparks swimming in the yellowish plasma. It had gorged itself and was now after…something else.
Something else a bit too obvious, suddenly, as the thing snickered, and a panel whipped aside on its pelvis, revealing a thick, greenlined spike, turgid with lust, dripping with greenish slime.
No. Oh no. No. NO.
Tentacles scrabbled over his orange armor, popping open his interface hatch with violence, leaving him gasping with pain, struggling to move on the table. His fingers clenched, helplessly where they were pinned to the table, as the thing shifted, rubbing the slimed spike over his equipment covers. The spike was cold, sending shivers through Rung’s systems, even as the rubbing became more insistent, scraping over the delicate metal.
The thing chortled, lifting its head, green optics making contact with Rung’s blue, and he felt something almost reach inside him, tugging at his brain module, but gently, gentler than the touches on his body. His valve cover snicked aside, against his control.
Rung whimpered as the cold spike pushed in, his valve sensors burning with the acid from the slime. The sparkeater thrust inside him, driving the spike home, jamming against the top of his valve. He cried out, arching up, his chassis orb bumping into the greenish metal.
The sparkeater humped its spinal struts, folding itself nearly in half, the ribstruts flaring, thusting into Rung’s valve in slow, hard jabs, battered fingers clawing at the orb. Rung could feel desire pouring from it, hunger, a need deeper than lust.
Another pull at his brain module, and he felt his spark armor retracting. The thing was playing with him, drawing him out, feeding on his fear, the sensations he didn’t want to feel as the spike built charge in his valve, sending unwelcome but delicious tremors through his sensors.
The sparkeater gave a chitter of triumph, as the armor edged aside, dragging its long glossa over the exposed spark chamber, agile and eager. Rung felt an exhalation of hot, fetid air over his spark chamber, slow, in time to the long thrust in his valve. He was on the brink of death the verge of dying, his sentience eradicated, his emotions made food for this thing...
...and it was almost ecstasy. He sucked in a vent, relaxing as much as he could into it. Tension solves nothing, resistance to reality was, he knew one of the chief sources of depression among mechs. He sighed, surrendering to it, to the rising charge in his valve, to the delicate touches of the claws along his sides, his thighs, to the probing little licks over his spark chamber, even to the pain, hot and sharp, from his punctured wrists, the way he could feel energon bubble up around the long spikes, dribbling down his narrow wrists.
The thing gave a sucking sound, and he felt his spark tug at him, a thousand little roots of energy protest, stretching, on the brink of agony, even as he felt his valve clutch over the thrusting spike, squeezing at it almost frantically, overload tearing through him, transmuting the pain, the charge and the terror combining to a dizzying sort of ecstasy.
At least, Rung thought dimly, it doesn’t hurt. At least this isn’t awful. At least I’m not sobbing, begging, suffering. At least….
The world went green, and yellow, and white, a crashing torrent that swept Rung away.
So this is what it feels like to die? I wonder why we’re so afraid.
”Hey. Eyebrows.” The voice floated dimly over Rung’s awareness. It took a long time to make the words make sense, make the world make sense. He blinked, forcing himself to awareness. Name: Rung. Location: The Lost Light. Last memory:…
”Gah!” He jerked up, optics flaring wide, to find the blue newcomer, Skids, kneeling over him. He clutched over his chassis, covered with long scratches, his wrists clotted pink, greenish gold leaking from his valve. Oh frag. It had happened. It had happened. But he wasn’t dead?
“It’s all right,” Skids said. “That thing ain’t coming back.” He moved, handing a rag to Rung. “Lucky you survived.”
”I don’t feel lucky,” Rung said. He felt… Numb. Confused. Sore. Anything but lucky.
”Yeah, that’s kinda how it works,” Skids said. “C’mon. Let’s get you to Medibay.”
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Date: 2012-05-01 12:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-02 12:50 am (UTC)