In the Darkness

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
Bayverse
Soundwave/Prowl
Warnings: sticky, tentacles, dub/noncon

A/N  There is no plot. I fail at cross-factional because I can never think of plausible reasons for, y'know, MORTAL ENEMIES to be getting it on.  So...let's just say Inscrutable Soundwave is Inscrutable and has his reasons for wanting to assist Prowl.  

This falls under the 'mind control tentacles' of tentacle fetish, in a way.

The first pairing is inspired by (but don't blame) albydarned 's insanely hot fics.

Prowl shivered as the tentacles slid gently along his armor plates, bouncing off the solid plates, tendrilling, seeking, exploring gaps in the plates, slipping into the cabling, searching out the circuitry.  He felt a myriad of tiny, cool touches against his wiring; meek little probing caresses, like a thousand miniscule glossae flicking into areas too small to be kissed.

A whimper escaped him—half of fear, half of an unfamiliar sensory wash of strange pleasure.  He tensed as some of the brushes became small pinches, as the tentacle ends devolved into nanoprobes, piercing the protective sheathing, digging into the circuitry underneath. 

“Shall I desist?”

Prowl’s venting was ragged. “N-no.”  Illogical question—to refuse this was to die.  The weapon’s pulse had shattered his programming. He was helpless.  A mind in a paralyzed shell.  He could not fight back against Soundwave’s intrusion, even if he wanted to.  Even if it made sense.  Why Soundwave was helping him…defied his logic.  He kept himself on guard, bolstering his firewalls against a total intrusion. He would not be taken over. He would give up no secrets. 

He felt the circuits burn as Soundwave began relinking the connections, coaxing the signals to leap again, tentatively at first, current building up on the undamaged portions of line.  Prowl found his body thrashing, weakly, his sensornet whitelining from pain. He heard a whining sound, realizing, with embarrassment, that it came from his vocalizer.

“I can,” Soundwave said, neutrally, “remove the pain.”

“Unnecessary,” Prowl gasped.

A sound like a smirking sort of snort. “It diminishes your ability to firewall.”

Prowl winced, both at the insinuation and at another burst of pain as the repairs seared through his wiring.  “Yes,” he said.  If he could have bowed his head, if he’d had that much control, he would have. 

The pain…disappeared.  No. It didn’t disappear, it got transmuted somehow, the burning blaze of agony changing, like some strange permutation of the law of conservation of energy.  The redline alarms and errors died down, replaced by another blaze of sensory input, from his interface routines. 

“It is simply easiest,” Soundwave said, blandly, “to reroute the signal rather than to damp it. Besides, signals need to be running for repairs to progress.”

Prowl tried to shift, uncomfortable. His body still did not obey his commands, lying there like a numb, broken thing.  His optics registered Soundwave leaning over him, the mandibled face tilted, curious, his silver frame catching the faint reflected starlight, panels shifting restlessly as he worked, adjusting to capture solar radiation as the small asteroid they were on slowly spun.  He felt his interface systems surge with input. No….he did NOT want Soundwave.  He shut his optics, cutting the image out. Cutting out the potential. 

His processor fed him an image that would have shuddered through his body, had his body been responsive to his commands.  Bluestreak.  The younger mech’s mouth, eager, willing, wanting to learn, wanting to be trained, exploring his spike.  He felt a sensation of his spike lubricating, could feel the heat of the lubricant escaping, running down the outside of a pressurized spike.  Illusion, he told himself. Fantasy.  Modulations of programming.  Old code, old readings, old sensation. 

But it felt so real. As real as the chill of the rock beneath his shoulders, grating into his doorwings. As real as the phantasm of Bluestreak, kneeling between his legs, azure optics alight and earnest.  He could feel the younger mech’s ex-vents across his spread thighs, the glossa hesitant, almost afraid of damaging the spike, as it licked, explored its way along the shaft.  Completely innocent. Completely maddening.  He could…feel it.  Could even sense the hesitation, the fear in Bluestreak—am I doing something wrong? is my inexperience showing?  He could feel those things as clearly as he could feel the glossa sliding across the underside of his spike, the warm pressure of the mouth cavity, the rising suction as the head moved in his lap, the helm rising and falling, Bluestreak’s hands kneading at Prowl’s spread thighs, the soft sound of Bluestreak’s secondary fans kicking on (this was getting him so hot and Prowl wanted to shutter his optics and rock back into the sensation knowing, KNOWING that Bluestreak was getting off on this as well). 

Jazz was…dead, and Bluestreak was at best a consolation for that loss. Not a replacement. No one could ever replace Jazz, and in a way, Bluestreak was the opposite of Jazz: inexperienced compared to Jazz’s casual sexual comfort; shy where Jazz was sure; yielding and submissive where Jazz had been aggressive.  Different enough. There could be no mistake, but it was a moving forward that had started as merely physical, mere bodily comfort, merely trying to bury the pain of his loss in uncharacteristic sensation. But the gunner had slowly, slowly become more to him; depending on Prowl as a source of wisdom and strength.  And that dependence kept Prowl going, kept him aware, kept him needed, wanted. 

And beyond moments like this, but moments like this also: Bluestreak’s mouth riding his spike, his own hands clutching the air behind Bluestreak’s helm, wanting to take control, to adjust the pace—faster, harder—but at the same time the maddening changes of rhythm and pressure drove him to an aroused brink he had rarely been at before. And he didn’t want to make Bluestreak feel he was doing it wrong. Not when it was so…very…right.

He felt a shudder—a real one, it seemed, because he felt the grit from the asteroid’s surface grate against his back at the sudden movement—as an overload—real, real enough—rocketed through his systems. He felt the hot rush of transfluid up his spike, feel it burst into the cold of the vacuum of space.  His body shook all over. A result of the overload  or of Soundwave’s reprogramming?  He couldn’t tell. 

A dry laugh from the satellite.  “That was your memory.  Let us see what you have in…more imaginative corners of your cortex.”

Prowl tried to resist, but the interface datastorage was outside of his important firewalls. Compared to tactical data, security codes, and vital process trees, whom he wanted to frag was…nonessential information.  Open to Soundwave’s pilfering.

And the image stole over him. He writhed with a kind of shame, even as his systems fired up in renewed desire.  And it wasn’t Bluestreak and his sweet, innocent mouth around Prowl’s spike, but…Starscream, pinned down, Prowl’s valve over his mouth.  Yes.  Oh Primus, yes. 

“Do it,” he snarled, only the voice wasn’t his—he never spoke like this, ever. Never used that dark, commanding tone, never leaned forward, vulgarity bubbling on his lips. “Get me off, Seeker.” He ground his valve against the mouth, reveling in the hateful glare from the caged red optics. “I know you’re good at this. I bet you have a lot of practice doing this with Megatron.”  Long, taloned hands sliced through the air at his body—he snatched them, pinning them under his knees.  “Get me off, whore.”  Part of Prowl cringed as he said this, even though he knew he wasn’t really saying them, even though he knew there wasn’t the Decepticon Air Commander trapped between his spread thighs.

It was his imagination, and nothing more, an imagination fed by the surfeit of signals in his sensornet looking for a channel to run down for release. 

He gasped, feeling—not feeling, but still feeling—a tremulous touch, a flicker of a glossa around the edge of his valve.  The red optics glared up at him, hatefully but instead of quelling his desire, it inflamed it, a rush of power at the (imaginary) jet’s helplessness.  He gritted his denta. “Yes,” he breathed. “More.”

The glossa traced a light circle around the rim of the valve, recoiling at the taste of the valve’s lubricant.  “Oh,” Prowl whispered. “Would you like it better if I were leaking someone else’s transfluid? Is that how he does it? Does he fuck some random mech and make you swallow it?  Does he even tell you the other mech’s name?”  Prowl felt a cold horror, as if seeping up from the ground itself, at his words.  He was not like this. This was not him, saying these words, thinking these thoughts.  This was not him…being aroused. 

The glossa slid further into his valve, the jet’s oddly shaped lower mouth pinching one of the nodes against the rim.  Prowl shuddered, groaning at the charge feedback, redoubled by the pressure on the node itself, as the glossa worked deeper and deeper into the valve’s dark recesses. He could feel the glossa’s warm surface slithering against the lining of his valve, like velvet against velvet, delving deeper than he knew  a glossa could reach, worming its way up the valve’s interior until it tickled against the ceiling node. 

He arched—there with Starscream, and here against the barren rock of the asteroid—rigid with the shock of a teasing, delicate touch against the sensitive node, that almost never got stimulated, and never so gently.  “Yes,” he breathed. He felt his hips move, his thighs sliding against the jet’s cheek flares, the glossa restless inside him, the lip plate still pinching, rolling at the node.  He groaned, another wash of thin protectant fluid trickling down his valve, over the glossa.  He could feel it slickening the jet’s face as it leaked from his valve, could feel the charge building, a staticky tingle of arousal, rising on colliding waves from the pinched node and the ceiling node being circled, traced, flicked against by a glossa that knew more about what it was doing than he did.  He’d been the expert with Bluestreak, here, in his fantasy, he was the inexperienced one. 

His entire body began trembling, the servos tensing in anticipation, all sense flooding to his valve and the impossible sensations rippling across his net. 

He had so desperately desired that Bluestreak wanted it. Now he just as urgently desired that Starscream not want this; that the jet should feel every shred of humiliation, every bit of his power over him.  Even as, especially as, Starscream’s worming, working glossa was flicking, licking, teasing him inexorably toward overload. 

He spasmed, his hands there, here, wherever, clutching at the dirt, his hips bucking up, tearing the node from the fantasy’s pinching mouth, his ceiling node juddering with overcharge, still teased, tormented by the feathery touches of the glossa. 

He heard a soft, cold laugh, and the image disappeared and he could no longer even pretend to be somewhere else.  It was only Prowl on the cold stone of an asteroid, Soundwave looming over him, a dozen silvery tendrils snaking from Soundwave’s form, wriggling gently as if stirred by a breeze, down their length to where they disappeared into Prowl’s own armor.  It was…more than vaguely disturbing to contemplate those nanite tentacles, especially after feeling, for himself, their power to erase reality.  To supplant reality with nonreality, with dark, unspoken fantasy.  To take pain and transmute it to pleasure. 

He shuddered, only half in remembered release. 

“Interesting,” Soundwave said, blandly.  “Such interesting desires.”

“Yours,” Prowl croaked. “You inflicted them on me.”  That was the only logical explanation.  That the desire to dominate Starscream had been Soundwave’s fantasy, and he had used it, projected it onto Prowl instead. 

Soundwave’s mandibled face was unreadable, but he shook his head. “Delusion, Autobot.  Denial.  You shall not win the war if you are afraid to face your own darkness.” He leaned closer, his silver mandibles a finger’s breadth away from Prowl’s mouth. “You cannot outthink what you refuse to understand.”    

 

Comments

[sovereigntysake.livejournal.com]

/drools
Oh I...oh wow. I most likely shouldn't have read this right before going to class.
Love the Jazz/Prowl drama, I'm a sucker for those two.