Five Fantasies
Aug. 30th, 2010 06:40 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
niyazi-a.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shadow_vectorBayverse
Barricade and...yeah, he wishes he could get all these mechs
sticky
written for
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5_times prompt 'lust'1.
Barricade watched Blackout and Grindor walk past the table he sat at—okay, kinda more like skulked at—in the refectory. Blackout gave him a vague nod, some hint of recollection for the mission they’d served on together, before passing.
Barricade stared as the passing copters, optics transfixed by the mass of rotors, that seemed to shift and slide like living things as the copters talked, echoing their emotions. Sleek and alluring. As they talked, one of Grindor’s rotors brushed against Blackout’s. Barricade quivered where he sat. Oh frag that was hot! He wondered if they, y’know, ever did it. Frag yeah. Hot coptersex. Like a rotor sandwich or something. What would it be like to be in the middle of that…?
Okay, probably kind of squashy. But it would be woooooooorth it! All that metal, heaving around him, over him, hands and mouths eager on each other, not even noticing a small grounder’s hands, the way they squirmed and pried; or a small grounder’s glossa, tingling its electrical discharge across their frames.
Rumor had it when rotaries overloaded, their rotors flared. Oh…frag. Barricade squirmed on his seat, twisting for one last glimpse of either of them, envisioning the rotors fanned out, trembling with ecstasy. His engine revved up, audibly, garnering him weird looks from the mechs a table over.
“Not you,” he snapped. Yeah, because that made it less embarrassing.
2.
Barricade squatted down in the maintenance facility, working a drying cloth into his ankle stabilizers. It had been a long deployment, and Earth dirt had gotten everywhere! It felt…so good to be clean. He began rubbing the cloth up and down his foot for the sheer sensual enjoyment, purring his engines happily.
Would be even better, of course, if someone else did it for him. Hmmmm. Like who?
Oh, Starscream. Those long bronze talons skittering over his armor, wrapping around the complicated plating, teasing at the transformation seams. He could almost hear the jet’s silky voice, murmuring compliments. “How fascinating your armor is, Barricade.” Or maybe, “The contrast between white and black really highlights your optics.” Or best yet, “You know, I have always desired you.”
Barricade quivered, optics dimming with reverie. His interface systems roared on at the thought, imagining ghost-talons stroking his armor, a phantom’s voice tempting his audio. The massive jet, bending, murmuring, caressing him. Wanting him.
“Barricade? Are you malfunctioning?” Starscream, dripping and glossy from the oil bath.
Barricade flared his optics. Frag. Starscream. “Uh…no. Just…yeah.” He couldn’t bring himself to meet the jet’s optics as he tossed down his rag and hurried from the room.
3.
Frag this briefing, Barricade thought, tapping an input rod idly on his datapad. His optics kept slipping over to the large black bomber a few seats away.
You know, he thought. Mindwipe was kind of sexy. Really. Well, a bit creepy, but then again, those mechs with visors always did seem a bit aloof. But aloof, in Mindwipe’s case, in a kind of hot way. Maybe it was that sort of tapered-chassis look—the broad shoulders, with their heavy flanges of armor, and the narrow waist assembly that Barricade bet even a smaller mech like himself could get his arms around. HOT.
Mindwipe’s head tilted, turning toward him. As though he’d caught Barricade looking. Or, you know, thinking thoughts. Which he might have: he allegedly had some kind of creepy powers like that.
Which was also kinda hot, if Barricade thought about it. He’d maybe know how you wanted it, without having to say anything. Like where to touch, and how hard, and when to escalate, and exactly that point, that edge, where teasing becomes almost unbearable, almost a cruelty, a fine line to ride along.
He dropped his gaze to his datapad, but his mind kept feeding him images: Mindwipe’s slender throat, the broad panel of his wing, written over in glyphs Barricade couldn’t read. Maybe he’d tell you if you interfaced with him: an intimacy for an intimacy. Barricade wished he had some sort of mystery to offer. Nope. Just a boring grounder. Might be worth trying, though?
The meeting dismissed. He turned, courage summoned, to ask Mindwipe some inane question—remind him what the mission goals were, or who was close air support, just some lame conversational piton to get his way in.
But Mindwipe had already stood, and turned, and his broad back, wings flicking, was receding down the aisle of seats.
4.
All right, Barricade thought. This aerial obsession was going to be his doom. It was like his subconscious had it in for him or something, choosing the frame type that was most likely to refuse him. Aerials didn’t do grounders. Well, not that often. And certainly not Barricade.
He ground his mouthplates together. Sometimes it entirely sucked being him. Yeah he wasn’t exactly, you know, Mr Charm.
Right. Stop obsessing about airframes. His talons clacked on his console, calling up another report. Work. Good wholesome work. Keep your processor occupied, and away from thoughts of jets. Or copters. Which you can’t have.
Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about interfacing. Even the good parts. The tasty parts. Like…the slow heat of friction rising in his valve, the feel of a spike pushing into the lining, sensor nodes tingling. Or, the other way, feeling another mech’s valve envelope his spike. Welcoming, belonging.
And more than the spike or valve, another mech’s systems humming against him, another frequency hitting his, melding against his, energies swirling, hands exploring, a mouth on his, prickling a kiss with charge….
He shivered. Okay, this was not helpful. Work. Work. Happy, happy work. Barricade loved work. Barricade loves his job. Loves it to little tiny pieces.
Frag. Who was he kidding? Aerials would never have him, grounders hated him or resented his position. He was in some awful kind of limbo. The worst kind of limbo: the celibate kind.
5.
So, Barricade, come to this, have we?
He’d given up. He was beyond frisky, squarely into ‘randy’ territory. His interface systems were driving him insane, never cycling down. Someone had said ‘wing’ earlier and his spike had leapt to pressure, whacking against the inner cover. Unlivable. He didn’t even raise his optics above knee level any more. Optic level to him was…crotch level on most air frames. Yeah. Kind of…a problem.
Couldn’t even concentrate in his own work cube. Recharge? Almost impossible. He’d woken up with a lubricant-glooped spike and an achingly empty valve and the ghosts of fantasies tormenting him.
So, fine, life. Barricade can handle it. By himself if need be. In the, uh…in the storage closet if he had to.
He sprawled himself in the corner, behind a few crates of input rods and some boxes of datareader parts, flipping open his hatch. His spike bumped eagerly against its cover, his valve already cycling. He opened both covers. The spike leapt into his hand, lubricant glossing its length. He gripped it with his talons, squeezing at it. He gave a shivering sigh. Oh frag that felt good. Who cares if it was weird?
His other talons scooped some of the lubricant off his spike, smearing it up the armored digits, before sliding into the valve, the cool lubricant bracing against the anticipation-heated nodes. He spread his talons in the valve, stretching the valve lining, feeling the mechanism try to spiral down against the irregular shape.
He stifled a moan.
His hands worked, slowly at first, one pulling at the spike in slow, firm strokes, the other pushing and twisting into the valve. His optics dimmed, head dropping back, sinking into the shameful pleasure. He felt the slick lubricant heating under his palm from the friction, fitful crackles from the spike nodes tickling his hand’s sensors. His other hand worked into his valve, squirming against the nodes, in a shivery counterpoint to the steady strokes on the spike.
His cortex fed him a sizzling image: a mouth, warm and eager on his spike, the glossa wrapping around it, its charge teasing at the nodes. Whose? Oh…he didn’t care. Blackout would be hot. Oh frag. Blackout’s mouth on his spike, the massive shape of the rotor engine looming over his head, those delicious rotors within easy reach….
He felt the overload build, quickly, rushing at him as if furious for its long restraint. It seemed to swell from his interface hatch, pushing along his sensornet like a rising tide, pressure and pleasure both at once.
Barricade clamped his mouth plates shut over a cry as the overload sent one final burst across his net, the pressure surging through him suddenly lighting up, incandescent. His valve clamped upon his fingers, his hip frame jerking as his spike released a spurt of hot transfluid that then pattered down, partially cooled, onto his body.
Barricade lay there, quivering, talons stilled, optics closed, deaf to everything but the sound of his secondary cooling, feeling nothing but ebbing washes of pleasure. He relaxed, his joints loosening with little releases of hydraulic pressure. Would have been better, he thought, if it were real.
He brightened his optics, releasing one sticky silver-smeared hand from his spike. It didn’t solve things, but it…took the edge off.
He shifted against the wall, one doorwing scraping into a crate as he sat up. And caught…oh frag. Red optics peering through the shelving at him.
Words collided in his vocalizer—a challenge, a threat, an entreaty, a lame excuse (it’s not what it looks like?) in a burst of sound. He fumbled with his equipment, trying desperately to stuff his still-pressurized spike back in its housing with sticky slick talons.
The figure stepped around the end of the shelf. And his spike fought out of his grasp, leaping back up to full pressure with a firm ooze of fresh lubricant. Blackout. Whose mouth he’d just been imagining…oh frag.
“Interesting, uh, little hobby you have here, Barricade,” Blackout said.
“Not a hobby!” Barricade blurted. “I just…just…,” Right. Awesome job there, Barricade. Valiant defense.
“You just need it that bad, huh?” The copter’s face was unreadable, but his voice had a timbre of amusement.
Barricade scrambled to get his legs under him, only to be stopped by the copter straddling his frame. “I, uh,…yeah.” He dropped his optics to his interface equipment, his silver-spattered frame, his sticky talons.
The massive bulk of the copter moved faster than Barricade would have thought possible, and suddenly he found himself pinned under the copter’s frame, his spike seated in Blackout’s valve.
“I, uh…oh Primus,” he whimpered, as the valve cycled down around his sensitized spike.
“Fraggin’ hot watching you,” Blackout murmured, leaning over, bracing one massive hand against the wall by Barricade’s shoulder.
Could say the same, Barricade’s processor squeaked. But all his vocalizer could manage was a quivering moan.
“Not nice to tease copters, you know that? Penalty to pay and all.” Blackout shifted, and began moving his hip frame in a rocking motion, working his valve along Barricade’s spike. Barricade’s hands clutched at the silver armor.
“I-is there?”
A flash of the optics, the narrow wedge of the mouth flicking wide for a fraction of a klik. “Oh yeah. This is just the start.”
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no subject
Date: 2010-08-30 11:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-30 11:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-30 11:22 am (UTC)Now laura doesn't feel as sick.
Sticky cures what ails ya x3
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Date: 2010-08-30 11:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-30 11:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-30 02:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-30 11:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-30 11:20 pm (UTC)And Blackout, such a nice copter!
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Date: 2010-08-30 03:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-30 11:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-30 03:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-30 11:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-31 03:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-31 02:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-31 03:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-31 04:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 04:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 08:05 pm (UTC)I could not stop laughing at this. I am at work and I can just hear this in my head.
and yeah, you need to expand on these.... these would be awesome short stories. There needs to be more Copterrowerf!
no subject
Date: 2010-12-03 09:35 am (UTC)Hence why Blackout could not resist. Too sexy~