Poetic Justice

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

R
Bayverse Au
Barricade, Bonecrusher, Blackout, Starscream, Grindor
Warnings:  Sticky pnp sex, baaaaaaad poetry
Written for tf_rare_pairing  prompt: Barricade/Bonecrusher/Blackout 'voice kink'.

Hey! It's still National Poetry Month here in the US, and what better way to celebrate than to crack into Bonecrusher's secret stash of poems?

When last we left our 'heroes', Blackout and Starscream had agreed to hand Barricade over to Bonecrusher to stay out of trouble.

“What is the matter, Barricade?  I do not recall seeing you quite so…glum.”  Starscream tilted his head, coyly, from across the table.

‘Glum’ was maybe an understatement.  Barricade had more or less flattened himself on the table, as if drained of the will to live.  Scratch the ‘as if’.  He didn’t even move when Blackout placed an entire cube of airframe grade energon in front of him. 

“Aww,” the copter said. “Poor little guy.”  He nudged the cube closer.  “Come on. This’ll help.” 

“Mrrrmph,” Barricade’s face was muffled into the table.  “Not unless it’s poisoned.”

“He has his big date with Bonecrusher offshiftcycle,” Blackout explained. 

“He is…insufficiently enthused.”

“I am as enthused as the slaggin’ situation calls for,” Barricade muttered.  His hand snatched at the cube.  What? No sense letting perfectly good energon go to waste. “The situation,” he said, after a long swallow, “involves Bonecrusher. And interfacing. Which YOU TWO got me into.”

“We shall be there to supervise,” Starscream said, calmly. “There is no need for histrionics.”

“There is every need for histrionics.  Like…a slaggin’ A-1 gold star priority for histrionics,” Barricade snapped.  “And you idiots being there are no help.  You’re just going to laugh at me the whole time.”

“I was planning a running commentary,” Blackout admitted.  “But we’re not going to let anything, you know, like bad happen to you and stuff.” He shrugged. “It’s just interfacing.”

“’Just interfacing’,” Barricade mocked. “So says the copter who practically needed a strike mission to lose his copterginity.”

“I believe that I was the one who lost ‘copterginity,’” Starscream said, mildly. “If that even is a word and not another of your adorably bizarre neologism.”

“He makes up new words?”

“Oh yes. In fact, ‘copter-‘ is his new favorite prefix.  Why the other day he introduced ‘copterrific’ and ‘copter sandwich’ and what was that other one? Barricade, what was that one you used that meant the spontaneous arousal one feels when in the presence of a copter?”

“Killmenow,” Barricade said, slamming his face against the table’s surface, his dermal plating overheating in mortification. 

“No, that was not it.” Starscream frowned. “What was it? Oh I hate it when this happens.” He tapped his chin with one elegant talon.  “Coptersex? No, that was not it.  Coptercest? No, you have used that one as well, but that is something different.”

“Wow. How often does he talk about copters?” Blackout said, looking at Barricade appraisingly.

“Never, after tonight, when I DIE,” Barricade wailed. “Nice to see you both making the effort to make my last hours so enjoyable.”

“Coptergasm! That was the other word,” Starscream crowed, triumphantly.  Mechs several tables over turned to stare.  Blackout’s rotors shot into a flat line down his back in embarrassment. 

Barricade slammed his face against the table. Death…could not come soon enough.  With friends like these….

***

Blackout caught up with him after shiftcycle.  Ahahaha, right. Pretending to be just walking by. Oh, Barricade. Yeah. I was just passing by, like…the instant you got off shift.  Did the copter think he was that naïve?  Seriously.  And…the copter was looking at him weirdly.  He kept drifting on ahead, then turning to give Barricade a strange coy look over his shoulder, fluttering his rotors…kinda suggestively. Barricade got the distinct feeling that his Affections were Being Toyed With.

“Stop that,” he snapped, sourly.

“Stop what?” Blackout asked, his voice so innocent it almost squeaked.  Riiiiight. 

“You know what.”

“What?  I’m just doing, you know...coptery stuff. You know. Stuff us copters do.”  The rotors flicked, the blades sliding audibly against each other. The sound was…silky. “Copterstuff.”

“Not. Funny.”   

Blackout grinned. “Why? You…feeling okay?” Oh definitely a set up.  Barricade clutched on to his hatred of Starscream.  Blackout stopped, turned, pinning Barricade against the wall, his hands slicking down the smaller mech’s sides.  “Feel okay to me,” he teased.

Barricade shivered, his sensornet firing online.  “You’re in an awfully jovial mood for my imminent demise.”

“Oh come on. It won’t be that bad.”

“I notice how you’re not saying it’ll be any slaggin’ GOOD.”

“Now you’re being judgmental.”

“Judgmental? You two sold me to Bonecrusher!”

“Only for an offshift cycle.” Blackout shrugged. “Look, we really appreciate it and stuff, and it was all for a  good cause, you know.  Getting you with that other copter.”

“That was not a good cause! That was about getting YOU with the other copter.”

“The other copter’s right here.” 

Barricade whirled: Grindor stood in a doorway along a corridor. The lighter-skinned copter nodded at Blackout.  “You’re looking…rotorrific,” he said, blandly.

Blackout snickered. “Copterrific,” he corrected. 

Barricade swore a mighty swear that he was never ever going to talk about copters in front of the (apparently vindictive and jealous) jet again, and muttered, “Frag the lot of you, you know?” and tried to stomp up the corridor in a convincing show of rage and despair.

“What’s his deal?” Grindor said, falling into step with Blackout.

“His big thing with Bonecrusher.”

“Ah, that’s right! It’s okay, Barricade,” Grindor added cheerfully. The copters’ larger strides caught them up with Barricade in no time.  “It’s okay to be scared.”

“Well, thank you for the slaggin’ permission slip,” Barricade snapped. “Let me guess: you’re joining the VIP seats for this? Can’t our little ‘cade even get some privacy for his humiliation?”

“That’s kind of unfair, from what I hear,” Grindor said.  “I heard you had some voy kink, you know, watching Blackout. And then Bonecrusher with Brawl.”

“That last,” Barricade snarled, “was the least sexy thing I have seen in my entire online existence. Until…whatever’s about to ensue.”

“You want to hit the washracks before you go? You know, get yourself freshened up?”

The idea nauseated Barricade.  “No. The sacrificial lamb is not going to serve himself up all dainty and perfumed and stuff. For frag’s sake, he’s used to Brawl.” Anything that smelled better than ‘bringing tears of pain to the optics’ was a distinct step toward cleanliness. 

“Hm.” Grindor considered. “Maybe Bonecrusher likes it a little dirty.”

“Please don’t make me imagine this happening any more vividly,” Barricade said, drooping. 

“Hey, maybe he’ll read some of his poems and stuff to you.”

Yeah, because that piece of knowledge wasn’t disturbing enough without a free sample. And the two images—the dirty and the poetry—combined in Barricade’s processor until all he could think of was Bonecrusher reciting obscene limericks.  The effect was…profoundly disturbing.

“You can ask him to use his sexy voice,” Grindor offered.

Barricade screeched to a halt so hard that his joints froze and he toppled forward.  “S-sexy voice?”

“Yes.  Bonecrusher really works on his poetry delivery.  Apparently, he hates monotone.” Grindor shrugged . “So he spends a lot of time practicing. It’s pretty sexy.”

“Huh, I kinda want to hear this myself,” Blackout said.  “Sounds hot.”

Barricade’s optics revolved to the dark copter. “You just implied Bonecrusher and hot.” 

“He’s not that bad,” Grindor said.  “Honestly.  Once you get beneath the gruff exterior, he’s all goo.”

“So are Quintessons,” Barricade snapped, “And I don’t hear them as preferred interface partners.” 

“The tentacles are appealing to some,” Starscream cut in, smugly. “And how very…fortunate of you to swing by my quarters on your way to this delightful event.”

Barricade hadn’t even noticed where the copters had been steering him.  Fantastic.  All three of them, here to witness the abject humiliation of Barricade. Awesome. “I hate all of you. Just so you know.”

Blackout grinned, prodding at a drivetrain tire teasingly. “See? Now you’re getting in the proper Bonecrusher spirit.”

***

If the three larger mechs hadn’t been at his back like some sort of slaggin’ wall of mechanized obnoxiousness, Barricade would have bolted as the door coded open.  Bonecrusher had dimmed the lights nearly to lowlight (the better to NOT have to see what’s going on). This suddenly became a bit realer than Barricade thought possible. He froze.

“Bonecrusher!” Starscream announced. “We have arrived!” 

Subtle. Because, you know, otherwise Bonecrusher might have missed four mechs crowding in the door of his recharge. 

“I can see that, you slaggin’ idiot,” Bonecrusher muttered.  “Did all three of you have to come?”

“No,” Blackout admitted, “but it’s more fun this way. Spreads it around.” Nope: All the suck was still concentrated on Barricade.

Bonecrusher grunted, optics narrowing.  “Better not get in the way. Bonecrusher doesn’t do orgies.” 

“I am surprised to see you here without your…ebullient companion.”

Bonecrusher circled his shoulders as though loosening up. “Sent the moron looking for grid-square rectifiers.  He’ll be gone until he realizes they don’t exist. Oh, wait. He won’t realize that. Oh well.”  He shrugged.

“You seem…remarkably blasé.”

“It’s Brawl.” He glared at Starscream for a long moment before adding, surlily, “Fine. I’ll comm him and tell him I found some when we’re done.” He turned and regarded Barricade as though he were an energon treat.

Well, there went that last final hope, Barricade thought.  He shot the three a desperate look as Bonecrusher’s long arm caught him around the shoulder fairing and yanked him forward.  Barricade found himself planted in the center of the recharge cube, Bonecrusher wheeling around him slowly, inspecting him.  The effect was…creepy.  All he could hear was the faint squeaking of Bonecrusher’s footwheels. His optics tried to find the others—in the darkness, they were indistinguishable, their red optics powered down to lowlight were merely faint smudges.

Barricade tried to fight the urge to track Bonecrusher’s movements, bracing himself for some kind of…he didn’t even know what.  

And he suddenly remembered his hot little aft.  Meaning, that is, Bonecrusher’s comment about his hot little aft.  Barricade squirmed, until he realized that that probably wiggled his aft.  Okay, he didn’t think he could summon this much hate for anything. 

He whimpered as he felt hands trace his thigh armor—Bonecrusher’s long, lumpy hand.  “Heeeelp,” he bleated. 

Bonecrusher chuckled behind him. “You’re cute when you’re miserable,” Bonecrusher muttered. 

Fantastic, Barricade thought. I must be up to Basket of Puppies by now. 

“You should recite a poem,” Grindor suggested, helpfully.  “You know. To set the mood.”

“The mood is set,” Bonecrusher retorted. “He’s sufficiently unhappy.”

“I want to hear the sexy voice!” Blackout’s voice.  Barricade was going to kill him. Well, what was left of Barricade.  Barricade would…haunt him.  Maybe possess his rotor engine or something. Yeah…rotor engine.  That would be HOT. Maybe dying wouldn’t be all that bad if he could haunt a copter. 

Bonecrusher sighed, aggrieved. “I hate command performances, but just to shut you up.” He glared at the three pairs of optics, his chin resting on Barricade’s shoulder kibble.  “A haiku.”

He cleared his vocalizer, and Barricade heard it click down several registers.  Bonecrusher spoke,

“Miserable life

Surrounded by idiots.

This is an outrage.”

His voice was deep and rich and strangely resonant. Barricade was…oddly disturbed as his sensor net fired on. 

“Oh, very sexy!” Starscream said, optics brightening.  “I shall have to…,” he lowered his vocalizer pitch, “have to try…,” another pitchdrop, “try that.” 

“Shut up,” Bonecrusher snapped.  “Voc-tune on your own time.” 

Barricade was still reeling from the strangely arousing deep voice and the fragging weirdness that was Starscream’s odd enthusiasm. 

“You like that, you little fraggin’ pervert?” Bonecrusher’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him back against the bulky chassis.  Barricade squeaked as he felt…something prod his side where his interface hatch was. Bonecrusher’s tail. Oh, that wasn’t creepy at all. Nor tentacular. 

“No,” he said, weakly, as Bonecrusher’s long claws traced surprisingly light trails over his armor, under the plating. 

“Sure you didn’t.”  Bonecrusher’s long hands trickled down Barricade’s legs, teasing into the backs of the knees. Barricade almost staggered forward at the sudden, tingling brushes against his exposed cabling.  Bonecrusher rolled his weight back, his hand popping open Barricade’s interface hatch, the claw snapping Barricade’s module out of its catches.  “Huh,” Bonecrusher said, dubiously. He pulled the module in front of Barricade.  Green lights straggled up the module fitfully.  Barricade was disturbed there were any at all.  “Going to have to fix this.”

Going to have to cut it off, Barricade thought, sourly.  He closed his optics, trying to think pervy thoughts.  Get it over with.  Copter thoughts. Coptersandwich.  Maybe throw some jet in there too. Starscream did have some hot engines.  And he did have this incredibly velvety purr he made.  Con…cen…trate….eeeeuuuurrrghhh!!

No luck.  Bonecrusher was just like…the anti-hot. 

“Oh, no,” Barricade said flatly. “A malfunction.  What a shame. I think I need to go to repair bay right away and get it checked out.”  He started trying to squirm from Bonecrusher’s grasp. 

“Heh, not so fast.” The hands clamped around him, jerking his back against the chassis. He could feel Bonecrusher’s face against his doorwings, a warm glossa sliding between the fairing mounts.  Slag, he’d have to autoclave his entire body. 

Bonecrusher twisted behind him, the chassis grating over Barricade’s back kibble.  Ow.  Scratching the slaggin’ finish!  Barricade yelped, feeling Bonecrusher somehow manage to reach back—was he double  jointed or someth—oh yeah, right—and plug Barricade’s module in.

And it hit him. “Uhh, bad time to mention this? Can’t double connect.” 

“Heh.” Bonecrusher muttered. “I remember. Sissy.”

“Shut up. Not helping, you know.”

“Oh…I know what’ll help.” He pulled Barricade’s back against him again.  Barricade could feel his datastream pulse sluggishly.   This…would take forever. He would prove you could die of old age while interfacing. And boredom. And embarrassment.  In front of witnesses.  This was not the glorious death for the cause he’d always envisioned. 

Bonecrusher shifted one of Barricade’s arms, moving the shoulder fairing aside so that his vocalizer was next to Barricade’s audio, and the smaller mech’s doorwings smushed against his frame.  Barricade heard him cycle his voice down.

“You’re a slaggin’ ignorant savage, so I’m not going to waste a good poem on your undeserving audio.”

The deep voice rumbled in his audio and, pressed against the larger mech’s chassis, vibrated through his frame.  Uhhhh, this felt weird. His sensornet flared, and his module’s datastream pulsed up.  Not. Cool.  He looked desperately toward the others,  but they were just six dim red lights.  Fascinated.  Probably subvocing to each other. 

Bonecrusher started his poem. “It’s a ghazal, you illiterate twerp, so shut up and listen.

“Barricade, puny little fragger, fountain of outrage.

Everything he vocalizes fills me with outrage.

Barricade writhed, the strange vibrations sending resonating shimmers across his sensor net.  Oh Primus, he was…getting turned on by Bonecrusher’s voice! This was…unspeakable. Ick.  And the three of them were just…watching! 

“Brawl’s stupidity, his sensor-searing stench

I can barely see, much less breathe through this outrage.

Bonecrusher released one long arm, stroking it against Barricade’s drivetrain tire.  In spite of himself, Barricade whimpered, quivering. His datastream gave a sharp uptick.  Bonecrusher snickered. 

“The Air Commander’s ego, (so big it has its own gravitational field)

Sets my energon at a high rolling boil of outrage.

Kind of true…Barricade thought, dreamily.  The vibration from the larger mech’s deep voice tickled across his frame, skirling little silver trails of sensation across his net.  He felt his optics droop closed.

“Those slaggin’ copters are ‘face-teases, with their flirty little rotors.

Look but don’t touch? I call this an outrage.

Oh…very, very true, Barricade thought.  There’s something to this poetry stuff after all…. Copterrrrrs.  His hands clawed out after imaginary rotors.  Copterrowrf.  Copteases. His datastream throbbed against the seal of the access port in a solid, steady rhythm against which Bonecrusher’s voice wove a delicious counterpoint.

                “All draw from me the inevitable refrain: this is an outrage!

                Sparks swirl around the crushed bones of my bladesharp,” he leaned in to whisper the last word,”outrage.”

Oh, dear PRIMUS!  Barricade went rigid as the overload shot through his system, shuddering through his whole body, his systems tripping one after another in a cascade of white pleasure.  He didn’t even have room in his cortex to handle how weird this was, much less to be disturbed by the fact that he’d be disturbed by this fact…forever. He heard his vocalizer trip, some sound that couldn’t even properly be called a word, and his hands spasmed so abruptly that his spoke weapon deployed. 

He came back from the fadeout, shivering, as his aft hit the floor.  His module was still connected to Bonecrusher’s side, the connector cables twanging as he fell. Holy…mother of used motor oil. What the slag had just happened?

Bonecrusher smirked down at him.  “Like that, huh?”

“Hated it,” he said but his voice was thin and weak and shaky.  Like he felt.  Poetry…was…weird. 

Bonecrusher handed him back his module with a brisk smack to the palm. “Even better.”

Starscream leapt forward, his optics spiraled wide in awe, darting between the limp puddle of Barricade, and Bonecrusher. “You…overloaded him with your voice.”

Bonecrusher shrugged. “Simple harmonics, really.”

“You shall instruct me on how to accomplish this.” The optics had shifted to their usual crafty gleam. 

Bonecrusher looked at the jet’s chassis appraisingly. “Not enough resonance.”

Starscream frowned, and thought for a moment, determined. “You shall at least give me a demonstration,” he wheedled.  Bonecrusher rolled his optics. 

“Fine.  I knew you three watching would be annoying.”  He snatched Starscream closer. 

“Hey there,”  Blackout squatted down next to him, his rotors sliding along the floor. “See? Told you there was nothing to worry about. You survived just fine.”

Yeah, only with the memory of this to have to live with, Barricade thought.  “That doesn’t make it right,” he muttered. He was going to have to get his audio retuned since there was something terminally, terminally wrong with it. Because finding ANYTHING about Bonecrusher arousing was a permanent glitch. 

“I have some ideas how we can maybe make it better,” Grindor said, “But he doesn’t look like he’s up for much.  Shame, really.”  He took Barricade’s module and traced it along the leading edge of one of Blackout’s rotors.

“True,” Blackout said, shivering at the touch to his rotors. “Shame, really. I was kind of hoping we could make up some new words.”

“I got some new words for you,” Barricade said, moodily.  “Copteases. All talk, no action.” 

“Copters,” Blackout admonished, “Are all about action. And we did say we’d make it up to you.” 

“Nothing can make up for this.” Both of the copters were looking down at him…thinking interfacing thoughts.  Barricade’s head dropped limply back to the floor. He wasn’t really used to this kind of attention. Why not make the most of it?  He felt…swoony. 

“Really?”  Grindor snorted, and held up the module, the green indicator lights marching steadfastly toward the end.  “Coptercure?” he winked.   Blackout winked back, scraping Barricade up in his arms. 

“I hate you both,” Barricade muttered limply.  His sensornet had already fired on.  Slaggin’ copters. And their rotors. And that aura of hotness.  And the promise of coptersex.  The very, very real promise of coptersex.  Screw the victim act.  Copterhotness was at hand. He dug his talons around Blackout’s armor, nuzzling into the copter’s neck. 

“I don’t know any poetry,” Blackout teased.

“Rotors,” Barricade said, trying to reach one arm around to grab himself one, “are way better than poetry any day.”



Comments

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

Yay for crack! Poor Barricade, though, always gets caught in the middle of this nonsense.

At least your Vortex brings it on himself, right? ^__~

[ultharkitty.livejournal.com]

Always ;)