shadow_vector | Interruptus

NC-17
G1
Onslaught/Vortex
Sticky
Yeah, another complete FAIL at the tire-fetish kink. I officially give up. :c

“What.” Onslaught’s version of a question. The laser pointer snapped off.

“What?” Vortex repeated. “It’s a briefing. You’re briefing. I’m watching you brief this briefing.” See? Totally self-evident. And..erm…brief. And it totally made it sound like Vortex had been paying attention, right? And not, you know, staring at the…tires.

Onslaught’s facemask was impassive. “Really.”

“Really!” Vortex straightened up in his chair, tapping his datapad. “Excellent briefing. I can’t wait.” Oh frag don’t ask me any questions. And stop…with the tires.

Onslaught gave him a stern look, one that blazed through his visor. “Vortex. A word, please.” He gestured toward the door.

Vortex frowned behind his own mask, pushing up off the table, suddenly aware of the optics of the other Combaticons on him. Brawl’s were lit up with pleasure, that ‘you’re going to get it now’ glee that only a moron like Brawl would show so openly; Swindle was smirking and probably trying to figure a blackmail angle; and Blast Off just looked…disgusted. All of which meant that despite the face mask and visor, Vortex had apparently failed at subtlety. Frag.

He followed Onslaught down the hall, into the closest room—a small maintenance facility, trying to keep his optics from drifting to the, uhh, you know. The tires. So…round and plump and frag they looked like they squished. His hands clenched, imagining clutching squishy tires. Frag, he could practically feel the rubber giving. He shivered with a refined kind of lust as Onslaught coded the door shut.

“Your problem.”

Wow. Onslaught really should learn question marks. Nah, then he wouldn’t be Onslaught. “I don’t have a problem.”

A sigh. “Right. Reason you were staring at me? And don’t tell me you were that enthralled on the briefing.”

“Maybe I was!” Well. It was a (remote) possibility.

“Then explain why you were staring at my torso.” Onslaught shifted, crossing his arms over his chassis.

“Was I?” Vortex blinked innocently. Oh, right. Yeah. Onslaught really didn’t buy into that. “I was just, you know, admiring the new alt.”

“It’s…functional.”

Vortex laughed. “Bit more than that.” He stepped closer. “Come on, Onslaught. You never look at yourself?”

“It’s…combat effective.” Onslaught leaned out of the way.

The hands came up in a sort of defensive gesture. Ineffectual, Vortex thought, optics taken by the tires on the forearms. Delicious, tempting tires. Vortex stretched a hand to touch them. “And hot. Just think, Ons. It’s efficient. Multi-tasking. You’re into that, right?” His hand hovered, a finger-span away from one of the chassis tires. Did they spin? Oh frag that would be hot. His spike ached in its housing.

“This is not a matter of what I am…’into’,” Onslaught said. “It’s a matter of—“

Right. Vortex simply took matters, well…literally into his own hands. If he hadn’t, frag, Onslaught would be lecturing all day. And sure his voice was kind of sexy, but tires…way sexier. Vortex grabbed one of the chassis tires. Oooooh, it did give when he squeezed it. He gave another experimental squeeze, feeling the rubber give. He shivered. HOT.

“Vortex!” Onslaught slapped his hand away. Vortex grabbed with his other hand, the other tires, leaning in, armor to armor, optics locked with Onslaught’s visor. His ventilation hitched, ran high, running a thumb along the tread, feeling the intricate pattern. “Control yourself!”

“No,” Vortex said. He snapped open his battlemask, leaning in to lick Onslaught’s audio, stifling a laugh. Yeah. Onslaught acted all tough and prim and uptight. If he really didn’t want this to happen, he’d be flattening Vortex right no—OWWWWW!!

Onslaught’s hand twisted one of Vortex’s rotors in its teeter hinge. Vortex arched up, his hands clutching reflexively at the tires. “Get. Off.”

“Trying to!” Vortex gasped. The pain merely added to the delicious heat of desire.

A black laugh. “Not that way. Get off me.”

Vortex squeezed at the tires. Heh. Almost pushed him to the edge. A little more. Onslaught’s frame shook. “Tell me you don’t like it, first,” he challenged. He took a risk, pushing at one, rotating it on its mounting. Onslaught hissed, twitching. “Come on, Onslaught,” he breathed. “Tell me.”

Onslaught’s facemask retracted with a snap, his scarred mouth curling. “Not. In the middle of a briefing.”

Vortex shrugged. “I’m the best you got, Onslaught. I should get some…special consideration.”

“We’re a team. No one gets special consideration.” The words were right, but the emotion behind them was a little…less than sure.

“I do,” Vortex whispered, leaning in, mouth brushing against Onslaught’s. “I get it because I take it.”

Onslaught wrenched the rotorblade, his other hand shoving away at Vortex’s chassis. The copter tumbled to the floor.

“Let’s talk about what you…get,” Onslaught said. Vortex grinned, his face turned carefully away, hearing the hot pitch in Onslaught’s voice. Almost there. Almost. Right…on the brink. He hooked one toe around Onslaught’s knee, jerking forward abruptly, hauling Onslaught off balance.

Onslaught threw out one palm, striking hard with his whole weight on Vortex’s shoulder. For a moment they tumbled around the floor of the maintenance facility, slamming into the tiled walls, the sound echoing in the small space.

Onslaught reared up, straddling Vortex’s chassis, pinning Vortex’s arms. His ventilation came in heaves. Vortex twisted, dragging his armor over Onslaught’s pelvic span. Closer. Closer. Vortex could smell it on him, the need and desire and repression: a powerful cocktail. One that intoxicated Vortex as well, just by proximity.

“Always,” Onslaught said. “A lack of discipline with you, Vortex.”

Vortex scoffed. “Discipline. Hidebound. Rigid.” He swung, his left fist aiming solidly at Onslaught’s chin.

Onslaught’s head snapped back, rocking against his back mounting. He snarled, dropping his weight, hard, his forearm driving across Vortex’s throat. “And your chaos is better?” His vocalizer buzzed close to Vortex’s face. Vortex’s visor locked with Onslaught’s.

“Resourcefulness,” Vortex countered. His other hand slapped the ground over his head, grabbing blindly. Ha! He whipped his hand up, thumb flipping the hose onto full blast, sending icy-cold cleanser into Onslaught’s face.

Onslaught’s roar was drowned in the jet of cleanser, his hands slapping fiercely down on Vortex’s face. Vortex laughed, triumphantly, and flicked the nozzle down, directing the water pressure at the chassis tires. Onslaught cried out, arching up. Vortex laughed triumphantly, sitting up, shoving the hose between the tires. Oh, frag, yes.

Vortex lunged up, his mouth closing on Onslaught’s, tasting the fresh cleanser, the contrast between the blast-cooled metal of the mouthplates and the warmth as Vortex pushed his glossa into Onslaught’s mouth was…darkly thrilling and delicious. Onslaught growled, mouth biting against Vortex’s, but leaning in, pushing down, driving his weight against Vortex until their chassis ground together. Vortex hissed with pleasure, hands sliding down, hose forgotten, spraying its coldness down his thigh, across the floor, as his hands clutched into the tires.

Onslaught growled, tearing his mouth from Vortex’s, burying his face in Vortex’s throat, his spine bucking as Vortex’s hands gripped into the rims of the tires, spinning the spokes. He felt the hard thrum of Onslaught’s interface systems firing online. Onslaught reared his hips back, hand groping between them. “We…shouldn’t be doing this,” he muttered. His spike stabbed at Vortex.

Vortex wormed, snapping his interface hatch open, tipping his hips up, valve’s mouth catching at the spike’s tip. Onslaught winced at the flick of pain, slapping a hand down on Vortex’s hipframe, driving his spike into the waiting, hungry valve.

Vortex squirmed his hips, letting the cold cleanser wash over his armor, feeling Onslaught begin driving the spike into his valve, each thrust scattering droplets of cleanser. Onslaught’s visor went dim, his systems rerouting, Vortex knew, into his sensornet. Fraggin’ Onslaught was so compartmentalized he practically had to shut down to get into, you know, the swing of things. But it was always so worth it to get to this point, for the naked yearning on Onslaught’s face that rocked inches over Vortex’s own, rapt, inwardly focused; the intensity in his frame, his fingers clutching at Vortex’s shoulders.

“You know you want it like this,” he whispered. He couldn’t help it. Watching Onslaught fight against himself was one of the hottest things he’d ever seen. It never failed to arouse.

“Shut up,” Onslaught muttered, without heat or ire. An old response, a posture. He moved, shoving Vortex’s thighs apart with his legs, scraping silkily against Vortex’s inner thigh armor.

“Make me,” Vortex taunted, the phrase melding into a moan as Onslaught took it as a goad and upped the force of his thrusts, slamming frame against frame. He snapped his head to one side, sinking his mouth into one of the tires on Onslaught’s forearm, the overload building hard and insistent, like a wall of water rushing at him, each thrust building a wave, an oscillation building on oscillation.

Onslaught gave a strange hissing grunt, his body jolting one last time against Vortex’s frame, his winch jabbing into Vortex’s abdominal plating. His hands squeezed, hard enough to dent the armor, a scalding flood of his overload slamming into Vortex’s valve.

Vortex gave an answering hiss, unsated, enflamed. He clamped his valve on the spike, catching his leg around Onslaught’s knee, trying to pin him down, get more from him.

Onslaught wrenched at one of the rotors, shoving ruthlessly away, his spike popping out of the valve.

“Come on!” Vortex writhed on the floor. “You can’t leave me like this!”

“I can’t?” Finally, of course, Onslaught discovers question marks. He leaned over, picking up the nozzle, and spraying down his silver- streaked spike impassively. “I have a briefing to finish.”

“You have a ME to finish,” Vortex said, sitting up, grabbing at Onslaught.

Onslaught’s face mask snapped closed, the optics going flat. Closed off again. Vortex snarled in frustration. Onslaught ran the hose over his chassis, his optics locking on Vortex’s face as he deliberately ran the cold jet over his chassis tires. He tossed the hose at Vortex.

“Finish yourself.”

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

ultharkitty.livejournal.com

That was utterly hilarious and very hot :D And just what I needed to turn a potentially glum day (the Internet is so not playing ball) into a far more cheerful one.

(Edited due to spelling fail)

Edited Date: 2010-09-16 03:46 pm (UTC)