shadow_vector | Shower

NC-17
Bayverse
Blackout/Barricade
Sticky

Hey! I might have discovered where I left my perv! :P

Prompt 2 of today's

tf_speedwriting : Write your OTP from your current favourite continuity in your favourite genre. Okay so I chose 2/3 of my OT3, and I figured my favorite genre, or at least one of the genres I do most, is sticky. So...here ya go! (Start to finish: 59 minutes, unbeta'd)

Blackout had it bad. Barricade hadn’t quite realized HOW bad, however, until he walked in on him in the maintenance facility, to find the copter, well, to be indelicate (because ‘indelicate’ was Barricade’s middle name), yanking his spike.

It was…ridiculously fraggin’ hot—one hand braced against the plasceram tiles of the maint fac, cleanser runneling down the copter’s body in glossy rivulets, optics open and staring but blank with lust, the gun grey hand pumping frantically at the spike, spattering cleanser everywhere, until the copter jerked bodily, and silver transfluid shot from his spike, streaking against the maint fac walls before the cleanser from the ceiling taps washed it in silvery swirls away toward the drain. The copter’s rotors flared, casting a perfect arc of droplets, Blackout’s head tilting back, optics dim, as if all of his processing load was turned inward.

Barricade, at that instant, gave the game away, by some inarticulate lusting exclamation like “Guh!” escaping his vocalizer. Because copter-bation was hot. He forgave himself instantly.

The copter’s head jerked toward where he stood, the red optics focusing, blazing with a mix of anger and fear and embarrassment. “You!” he said. Some of the tension melted from his frame. “What the frag you doing sneaking up on a mech like that!?”

“Uh, wasn’t sneaking, rotorbrain,” Barricade said. His interface net was tingling with arousal. Frag, he wished he’d thought to record that. “Open maint fac. Not exactly A-1 privacy location.”

The rotors drooped. “Yeah, I guess. I just…I was cleansing and it just…kinda happened.”

Blackout’s mortification was disturbingly arousing to Barricade. “It happens, copter.”

“It didn’t before!”

“You mean, before you even knew you had a spike?” Barricade leaned against the half-wall dividing the cleanser tap area from the other parts of the maint fac.

“Yeah,” Blackout said, miserably. He looked down at his interface tech, and up, with alarm. “It’s still, uhhh, pressurized.”

Oh, Barricade’s net did not need to hear that. Oh wait, it did. “I can, uh, help you with that.”

“You started the whole thing!” Blackout said, pitiful, accusing, the cleanser still pouring over his frame. He still blamed everything on Barricade. But he turned to approach the smaller mech, which meant that, frag it, Barricade was getting some copter action. He’d deal with the guilt, like, later. Riiiiiight. He felt so guilty about having an interface partner who like, actually cared if he was having a good time.

“That’s why I’m offering,” he said, with a cocky grin. His interface tech pinged eagerly, his valve already running through preliminary settings. He turned, quickly, sending an override code to the maint fac door, locking it down. Yeah? Probably an abuse of power, but…whatever. This was, like…humanitarian aid or something. He turned back. “Privacy. Don’t think you want anyone else walking in on this.”

Blackout looked relieved. “Yeah.”

Barricade stepped under the fall of the ceiling taps. The cleanser fell on him in warm pattering drops, soothing and stimulating. He paused, tilting his face up. Blackout was, literally, twice his size. “How you want to…?” he reached out with one hand, silver talons stroking the underside of the still-aroused spike. Offering. Waiting.

Blackout shuffled his feet, the motions kicking up sprays of cleanser from the floor. Probably, Barricade thought, some of his transfluid’s in that. And it’s getting all over your lower legs. He shivered with arousal.

“Want…uh, you…?”

Barricade had a number of snarky comebacks, but they were more or less floored by the simple sincerity. Frag. “Yeah,” he said, his voice thick. He hoped the falling torrents of cleanser covered the awkward tone. Last time they’d done it—that way—Barricade had been flat on his back in his work cube chair. No good way to even out their height, unless he laid down. Frag that was a hot idea—the copter’s body massive, overwhelming him, surging above him, inside him. He wobbled, unsteadily, at the rush of desire, one shoulder tire bumping clumsily against the wall.

Blackout stabilized him there, pinning the tire with one hand. And then, the other. And then, he lifted, hauling Barricade effortlessly off the ground, drivetrain tires rolling up the slick plasceram tiles. All the way up to his own optic level. He ducked his head in, mouth tentative against Barricade’s, the wedge bumping clumsily at Barricade’s mouth. The glossa was a little less awkward, more eager, flicking along Barricade’s mouth, teasing its way inside. Barricade whimpered, his own hands coming up to latch over the copter’s forearms, his mouth opening, his interface panel autoreleasing.

Blackout broke the kiss, resting his forehead crest against Barricade’s brow finials. “Let me know if it doesn’t feel good,” he said, his voice almost lost in the sound of falling cleanser.

Barricade tipped his chin, licking his way up one side of Blackout’s wedge mouth and down the other. He met the gaze. “How ‘bout instead I tell you if it does?”

Blackout’s optics dimmed, the lenses spiraling wide in a fierce happiness. “Yeah,” he said. He shifted them, easily, Barricade’s doorwings sliding slickly along the wet tiles as the copter lowered him. He parted his thighs as Blackout leaned in, their bodies pressing together. They both gasped as the copter’s spike took his valve: Barricade because the spike was still hot from the friction of the copter’s earlier attempt at self-relief; Blackout because oh frag, the valve felt good—snug and cool and welcoming. The warm cleanser poured over both of them. Blackout tipped his head back, savoring, as Barricade’s valve cinched down more snugly around his spike. “Oh frag,” the copter breathed, before beginning a slow, gentle movement with his hips.

Barricade squirmed. He wasn’t made of plastic. He could take it harder that this: part of him wanted to take it harder than this. But he knew that Blackout wasn’t ready. And there was something about the larger mech’s consideration—the notion, however ridiculous, that Barricade deserved gentleness, deserved pleasure—that aroused him more deeply than any mere rhythm or technique. The copter had no technique other than sincerity.

Cleanser frothed between them as their heating frames partially atomized the cleanser, their air vents sending it in white flecks over each other’s bodies. Barricade’s talons clawed helplessly at the copter’s forearms, wishing he could touch more—especially those rotors, that were jouncing at the same tempo as the copter’s spike in his valve. His sensornet was alive with sensation—from the cleanser, from the slick slide of the copter’s body against his, the cool hardness of the wall behind him, the two large hands pinning him securely, and above all the rising sparking friction of the spike in his valve. He tilted his head, the best he could do, and nuzzled against one of the pinning hands, burying his gasps in Blackout’s wrist armor. He hoped.

Blackout roared, his rotors flaring, as the overload tripped his system. Charge sparked in Barricade’s valve, the final spark against his ceiling node spinning him into his own dizzying overload, hands clawing hard enough to gouge, biting into the wrist, chassis quivering as he felt the hot gush of transfluid inside. Oh fraaag, he thought, woozily.

They both stayed for a long moment, bodies joined, cleanser sliding silkily over their heated frames, bodies hissing steam. Barricade released his bite, sheepishly, his sensornet still alive with white and rose sensation.

Blackout drooped forward, resting his forehead on Barricade’s arm tire. “Frag,” he breathed, unsteadily. “Should, uh, let you down.” He dropped his knees, sliding his spike from Barricade, before letting him roll down. Barricade fought disappointment. One more kiss might have been nice. But still, his whole sensornet was wonderfully tingly, his valve had that pleasant slippery ache, the hot fluid seeping down his thighs.

He recovered himself, still leaning on the wall for a few kliks. Just to make sure. “Better?” He had to restrain himself from licking the spike, its shape streaked with lubricant and transfluid.

“Yeah,” Blackout said. “Sorry.”

Barricade tilted his face up. “Sorry for what?”

Blackout shrugged, his rotors narrowing. “You know. Should have more self-control and stuff.”

“I’m not hearing me complain.” Barricade smirked.

“Yeah, just…I shouldn’t blame you or anything. And learn to, like, handle this on my own.”

“That,” Barricade said, “is the last thing you should do. You want to handle this? Any time.” He was a little surprised, and more than a little afraid, at his own sincerity. Like the copter’s character was contagious or something. He hoped it sounded like a joke, just in case.

Blackout shut off the cleanser taps and for a long moment, they stood there, dripping, the air turning cool on their frames. “Gonna make you regret that,” he said.

Yeah? “You can try,” he said, optics glinting.

Shower

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