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shadow_vector2010-10-04 06:52 am
Cutey
NC-17
Bayverse
Grindor, Barricade, Starscream
sticky, plushy?
Yeah, another kink meme request that I"m not sure entirely works, but it was fun to write.
Grindor waited for the final thunk of the shuttle bay’s doors against the docking hub of the Nemesis. His first big warship, serving with classes other than airframes. He was…a little excited.
Not that way!
Okay, a little bit, that way. Maybe. You know, just because, well, groundframes were kind of cute. With their tiny little moving parts and everything.
He thought. He’d only ever seen them in holovids, or, very rarely, distantly, in training exercises. They were…distractingly cute. Especially when they pretended to be all tough.
The airlocks spiraled open with cold puffs of vacuum, the docking tube a dark tunnel opening into the brightness of the corridor. And there, with a datapad, to ident verify and inventory was…a grounder. His interface systems tingled. A real grounder! With…tires and everything.
Grindor felt his capacitor spin up. Oh frag, he was so…adorable. With little shiny talons, and impossibly fine plating on his midsection and just the tiniest little feet he’d ever see. Grindor caught himself gaping at the mech. How did he balance on those little footplates?
“Designation,” the grounder barked at him, as he filed with the others through the tube.
Grindor felt his systems race, his spike pressurizing behind its hatch as his hesitation stretched and the grounder’s face tilted up toward his. He shuddered. Four optics. FOUR. The lower set smaller, tiny little lasers of focus, tilting slightly inward, just a little cross-eyed looking. Holy frag. He quivered.
“Designation,” the grounder repeated. “What? Sound not reach all the way up there or something, copter?”
“I…uh…Grindor,” he said, feeling flatfooted and huge. He watched the grounder enter the name, and then obediently rattled off his registry number, watching the tiny talons enter the information. And then, “what’s your designation?” he blurted, nervously.
The upper set of optics blinked in surprise, then narrowed. “Barricade,” he snapped. “Chief of Intelligence on the Nemesis.”
Grindor’s faceplates heated. He grinned broadly. “That’s great!” he said, happily. “I’ll be working with you in Tac Ops!” Realizing, a little too late, it also sounded kind of stupid.
“Fantastic,” the grounder said, flatly. “I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to hear that. Because I’m not.”
Another moment, Grindor staring greedily down at Barricade, taking in all the details he could—the window-wings—little window wings, squee!!!—the shoulder-mounted tires, the way the other set of tires lapped over his wrists like sleeves. Did he only have four tires? Maybe he had other ones hidden away somewhere. Tires looked like awesome fun. Squishy and firm. Grindor had to resist the urge to reach over and squeeze one of them.
The grounder blinked, the action rippling across his four optics. “You gonna move? I ain’t got all day.”
Grindor’s rotors riffled, embarrassed. Yeah, he had been staring. Pretty baldly. “Yeah, I just…sorry. First time…uhhh…on a big warship.”
The optics blinked again—Grindor felt his spike ooze lubricant. Frag, that optical configuration was adorable!—then narrowed. “Yeah? Go be like…overwhelmed somewhere else.”
Yeah, Grindor thought, walking a bit unsteadily, his spike jabbing insistently into its housing, I’ll…uh…go do that.
[***]
Right. Barricade steeled himself with a deep ventilation cycle. New guy. Probably entirely clueless. The last Tac Ops mech they’d sent hadn’t known how to code Tac Dat, for Primus’s sake. Or at least…he’d claimed he didn’t know. Barricade wasn’t about to let another one get away with that. No way.
Especially not an air frame. Devious fraggers. “This,” he said, pointing to the chair, “is your chair. You sit in it.” No way he was going to let this new copter—who seemed a bit on the low-amperage side already—get away with anything. Not on his watch. Not in his section. He watched as the copter settled in, showily fluttering his rotors out of the way. Yeah? Try harder. So not impressed, Barricade thought. He’d had ‘airframe superiority’ thrown in his pinched little face too many times for it to sting anymore.
“Like this?” Grindor asked for confirmation. Barricade glowered, trying to hear the sarcasm. Huh. None? Maybe Grindor was even dimmer than he’d thought. Which would be…alarming.
“Yeah. Whatever.” He shrugged, his shoulder tire spinning in agitation. The copter’s optics seemed to fly to the slow rotation of the tire. Well, he’d said it was his first time on a big warship. Still, no need to be that edgy. Tire wasn’t going to kill him or anything. “And here’s your console.” Barricade turned. “I’m going to set it up for you to input your own passcode.” His talons clicked over the input keys, inputting the programming request. He tapped a talon idly against the console frame, waiting for the processor to produce the input box, window-wings twitching. Like the copter was staring at him or something.
He turned, the window wings giving an irritated flick. And sure enough—Grindor was staring at his back, one hand reaching up. Oh, one of those, huh? Trying to play some sort of prank on him? Probably getting ready to try and smash the ‘little grounder’s’ face into the console just to prove how big and tough he was. Well, Barricade was onto that little trick. He twisted aside, glaring with his upper optics while the lower watched until the input box finally came up.
“Right,” he snapped, stepping back. “Input code.” He tapped the console meaningfully.
Grindor leaned forward, laying one digit on the read screen, waiting for the console keys to adjust to his size. Barricade refused to move. Yeah, copter, right. Lean right on over. Get all up in my space. I am so not intimidated by you. Grindor input a code, scooting forward, one thigh plate sliding over Barricade’s hip joint. The copter went rigid. Barricade’s optics narrowed. Yeah. Look at that. You touched a filthy lowly slaggin’ grounder, spinny. What of it? Groundercooties. All over you. He debated lunging over and licking the slaggin’ airframe, just to make a point.
As it was, he couldn’t resist, you know, running one hand down his hip, talons glossing along the rim of the copter’s armor plate. He snickered as Grindor bolted upright.
“Uh, gotta go!” Grindor blurted, jumping out of his chair.
“Go where? We’re not done here.”
“Gotta go…um…maintenance! I’m late for maintenance!” Grindor yelled over his tightly wrapped rotors, as he dashed from the room.
Seriously? Barricade growled. One day he’d meet an airframe who wasn’t so fraggin’ stuck up about it.
Not today, apparently.
[***]
Grindor was hyperventing by the time he made it back to his recharge. Work…was more challenging than he’d thought. He knew the job well enough—below his rating, actually, but he knew that on a big battlecruiser you had to start somewhere and test scores really only meant so much compared to actual experience—but…yeah. Concentrating was becoming an issue.
Barricade was so fraggin’ adorable! The little talons, the way his little wings twitched to show emotion? Grindor had sat there in agony, his spike vibrating with pressure in its housing, his valve champing hungrily on nothing. And he’d thought he was holding it together pretty well…until Barricade had touched him. Until that EM field had teased against him. He wanted to hold it against himself, like…forever. Just curl into a big ball around the little grumpy grounder until he stopped being so crabby.
Okay, that wasn’t all he wanted to do.
He had to take the edge off if he was going to go back to his shift. Which he had to do. Had to. Because if he got transferred somewhere else—no more groundframe.
No, he’d take care of this…quickly.
He coded his recharge cube locked, looking around nervously before opening the box of his personal effects. He didn’t have much, really. A handful of holovids, his awards from the War Academy, stuff like that. And his…special friend.
A little smaller than life size, and, he realized now, a little too generic. But it was the best he could do when he’d ordered it—a generic little grounder doll with tiny, blunt fingers, and big red button optics. He’d mumbled something when he’d ordered it about being for a friend’s collection, which he’d hoped covered his stammering and excitement. But it had meant that he couldn’t, you know, order it customized…like that. He lay down on the berth, pulling it on top of him with one hand while his other groped for his interface hatch. The bright-opticked face smiled down at him.
“Hey there, little guy,” Grindor whispered. “Got a name for you, now.” He whimpered as his spike jutted out of its housing, sliding along the plush fabric of the toy. He was really glad he’d gotten the fabric waterguarded. “Gotta fix your face, too.” Barricade didn’t smile like that. Probably like…ever. Which made him even more irresistible—tiny little grumpiness.
His hand wrapped around his spike, feeling one floppy thigh slide over his wrist, imagining it was the sleek, glossy armor of the interceptor’s thigh. Oh frag, how hot would that be? Barricade straddling him, thighs squeezing over Grindor’s narrow pelvic span, valve cinching down around his spike…. Grindor squeezed at the spike, simulating it, letting his optics go unfocused and dim. His other hand pressed the stuffed toy against his chassis, rubbing the plus doorwings between his fingers, feeling the yielding texture of the fabric and stuffing. He hoped it was like what tires felt like.
His hand began pumping along his slick spike, his sensornet ablaze, imagining Barricade sprawled over his chassis, Barricade’s talons instead of the floppy fingers bumping limply along his chassis. Barricade’s mouth pressing against the swooping curve of his cockpit bell.
“So big,” he’d say. No, wait. That didn’t sound like him at all. “So fraggin’ big…!” There that was better. Maybe a little longing to touch the rotors—Grindor was a bit vain about them, trying to keep them polished and straight.
“Oh, you want to touch them?” he murmured. “Maybe later. If you’re good.” A tremor ran through his frame, at the thought of Barricade squirming over his chassis, eager to touch his rotors, begging, promising to be good, very good, if only…!
Grindor arched off the berth, the overload tearing through him, blazing down his systems and up his spike. He barely managed to curl one finger over the end of his spike, catching the burst of transfluid before it could jet up and touch his doll.
He shivered, his spinal struts un-arching slowly. Oh frag. The only thing hotter than this would be if…you know…Barricade were here. Getting off on it, too.
Grindor rolled to his side, petting his toy. Super cute, the little thing was. But it wasn’t the same. It was…a little one-sided. He stroked one hand over its plush helm, fondly, the little red optics glittering up at him. Only two of them. Nowhere near as adorable as Barricade’s four. It had kept him going so long but…oh frag he wanted it for real. Wanted real light behind those optics, wanted a face that could smile, but also frown, could laugh and yell. Now that he’d seen it, he wanted something real.
[***]
Barricade was beginning to get, well, okay, a little weirded out by the copter. It had been a few decacycles since Grindor had arrived, and while he couldn’t fault—at all—Grindor’s technical competence, there was just something…weird about him. Maybe something in that whole ‘genius/eccentric’ thing? Whatever. It was kind of…weird.
That was the only word he could come up with for it. It wasn’t really that creepy, or upsetting—he didn’t think Grindor was going to like, you know, murder him in his sleep or anything. But he could just feel the copter looking at him—a lot—and something seemed to be going on behind the optics. Just what that something was? Barricade had no idea.
So he did what any clever mech would do when confronted with a situation that seemed…devious and weird: consult the master of devious and weird.
“Hrm.” The Air Commander tapped one long bronze talon against his chin. He was watching surveillance footage Barricade had taken of the last shift. “I see.”
Barricade shifted on his feet. Come on, already, he thought. His optics kept leaping from Starscream’s face to the monitor, trying to read something in the broad armored plates.
The head tilted, as if it looked different from a different angle. “This is…interesting.”
“Oh stop,” Barricade snapped. “Tell me what you see. Stop draggin’ it out.”
The jet smiled slyly. “Why, Barricade, since I am advising you—for free—surely you wouldn’t begrudge me some amusement?”
Yeah, well, he would, actually. Fraggin’ jet. But, well, fine. Barricade squirmed. “Just…tell me, okay?”
A coy glitter of the optics, the mouth pursed in a tight moue. “It is really quite simple, Barricade. Grindor is infatuated with you.”
Barricade rolled his optics so hard his whole head moved. “Right. Ha ha ha. Nice try.”
Starscream laughed. “But it is true!” He respooled the footage. “I shall show you.” He paused the playback. “You see how he is staring at you, even though you are clearly not talking to him and your back is turned?”
“Yeah. Probably trying to figure out where to stab me.” It totally wouldn’t surprise Barricade. He knew he wasn’t Mr Cuddly McCharmenstein.
Starscream chuffed, impatiently. “You always do fantasize that everyone is trying to kill you, Barricade. It is…quite a unique kink.”
Barricade glared, flexing his talons significantly. The jet laughed, stretching one of his long arms over Barricade’s head, pinching one of the shoulder tires, playfully. “Do you find it so unbelievable that someone might find you…completely adorable?”
Barricade jerked his tire out of the jet’s grasp, irritably. “Yes,” he said.
“Fine,” Starscream said. “I am completely secure in my analysis. Why not test out my theory?”
“Test it?” Barricade tried to sound completely derisive. “Just tryin’ to make me look like an idiot in front of another airframe. I’m onto you, jet.”
“Your paranoia is tasty,” Starscream said, mildly. “But what if you could test my theory, without much risk to your precious little ego?”
Barricade glared, but said, “I’m listening….”
“Simple. Pretend to be in recharge. If he has an infatuation with you, he will be…entirely unable to resist the temptation.”
“And if he wants to kill me?”
“Then he will also be unable to resist the temptation—but you will not actually be in recharge so…,” Starscream nodded, triumphantly.
Barricade considered, his window wings shifting restlessly.
“I know that I, for example, would not be able to resist,” Starscream goaded.
“Fraggin’ weirdos.”
Starscream grinned. “You should learn to embrace their ‘weirdness’ then, for your own advantages.” He reached his other arm around, tweaking a window-wing. “A good time to practice that? Would be now.”
“Get off me, jet,” Barricade griped. “You’re only getting off on weirding me out.”
“Ah! Very true. But there’s also the matter of payment for my…expertise.” Starscream purred.
“Frag,” Barricade muttered, as Starscream pulled him against him, one long bronze hand creeping between his thighs. “Knew there was a catch.”
[***]
“Right,” Barricade had said, to Grindor, when the copter had shown up for his shift. “Been pulling a double shift. Gonna grab some downtime.” He’d jerked one of his dainty silver thumbs at the back of the work cube, where he’d set up a fast recharge cot. “Be there if you need me.”
“O-okay,” Grindor has responded, a little floored by the trust. That was a lot of responsibility Barricade was giving him—basically putting him in charge of Tactical.
That had been two and a half cycles ago. And the only sound from behind Grindor was the slow, steady, even humming of a recharging engine. He risked a glance back—Barricade was curled on his side, optics shuttered, resting his cheek on one of his wrist tires like a little built-in pillow. Grindor melted. So…fraggin’ cute! Working himself to exhaustion like that. And look at his little knees drawn up to his grille…!
Grindor looked back at the monitor, then back at Barricade. Then back at his monitor. Then back at Barricade. His systems warmed up. Maybe…? Maybe he could get a better look. You know. Just look. He could get better ideas how to customize his plushy, you know? Just…research.
Okay. Grindor eased himself off the chair, raising his rotors carefully, holding them high and wide so they didn’t rattle against the chair’s back, letting his toes slowly settle with weight on the floor. Then the next foot. Then, carefully, he levered his weight off the chair.
A quick check: Barricade was still curled in a tight ball. Grindor’s optics drank in the cute way the little ankles crossed, the footplate of one leg dangling just over the edge of the cot. He had the cutest feet Grindor had ever seen—the one toeplate, tiny, flat, with the flat little spike jabbing up from the instep. So different from Grindor’s own splayed, stabilized feet. Oh Grindor wanted to lick them! The little spikes most of all. He wondered if the mount at the base of the spur was sensitive. He was aching to know.
No. He was just going to look. That was all. Just go look. With his optics. Not his hands. Or his mouth.
He inched closer, optics traveling slowly over Barricade’s sleeping form. At last, a chance to look to his spark’s content. He was tired of snatching little glances; he was determined to make the most of this opportunity.
His external cooling system hummed on, to dissipate the heat of his arousal. He froze, optics wide and alarmed. This would be…bad to get caught right now. He glued his optics to Barricade, but all the little grounder did was…roll over on his back, his legs flopping open, his window wings squashed together on the cot.
His interface equipment prickled to life. He fought against it—no! He needed to look now. Who knew when he’d ever get another opportunity like this?
His spike did not care, guiding his optics down to the exposed span of the grounder’s pelvic frame. He wondered if it was warm from sleep—could practically feel it against his palm. Another thing his plushy didn’t have, couldn’t emulate.
Barricade gave a little whimper in his recharge, his hand flopping over his face. His whole side was exposed, practically begging for Grindor’s hands. Sprawled almost exactly like his plushy would splay out. Only real, and warm, and alive.
Grindor leaned over. No touch. Not going to touch, he told himself. Just want to feel the EM field. Just want to feel the fuzz of the grounder’s systems against him, just like that first time. He glossed a hand over his interface hatch, whimpering softly.
He shivered, feeling the fuzzy aura of Barricade’s sleep-expanded EM field push against his. His lust flared, his vents getting ragged and uneven, gusting air down the sleeping frame. Oh Primus, Barricade was so…cute! A hundred times cuter now, when recharge had smoothed the irritated lines from his face. He looked so peaceful, so innocent. Maybe he could actually smile like Grindor’s plushy.
But the little window wings looked…crushed. Surely Grindor could just reach around and, you know, tug that one out a little bit?
He reached over slowly, carefully, reaching for the pinched window wing….
“Barricade!” The shrill voice came over the grounder’s wrist comm.
“B’waaahh!!” Barricade bolted upright, arms flailing, blindly striking at Grindor’s hand, chassis.
“Aaaaaah!” Grindor leapt back, stumbled, falling hard on his aft, palms splatting flat against the deck.
“You were not actually supposed to fall into recharge!” the comm-voice said, stridently.
“What? I was fraggin’ TIRED!” Barricade bellowed, swinging his legs over the edge of the cot. He deployed his spoke weapon, optics ablaze. “And you! What the frag you doing?”
“I….uh….” Grindor choked on mortification. His optics widened at the weapon revving near his face.
“Oh, seriously,” the Air Commander’s voice floated over comm. “MUST I do everything?”
“Control freak,” Barricade muttered. “What the frag were you doing spying on me?” The weapon spun down, but Barricade didn’t tuck it away.
“Spying on you,” Starscream echoed, smoothly. “Your grasp of the obvious is slipping.”
Grindor went rigid. The whole time…? The Air Commander had been watching him? Right. Dying right now would be a good thing. There went his career! There went his dignity.
“Grindor,” Starscream said. “Would you like to explain, or shall I?”
“Gnguguhh!!” Grindor wrung his hands. This was the worst thing…ever. If only he’d kept his optics to himself!
“Barricade. Put your weapon away. It is not conducive to the mood.” Starscream sounded aggrieved.
“I’ll conduce you,” Barricade muttered, lowering his weapon.
“It is as I told you, Barricade. Grindor has a fixation on groundframes.”
“What? What kind of stupid thing is that?”
“I should not disparage something from which you could so easily profit,” Starscream admonished. “It occurs rather commonly among airframes who have had no exposure to grounders. Similarly, Grindor, you might be interested to know that groundframes often have a similar…attraction to airframes.” He made a pointed cough.
It was Barricade’s turn to make an awkward choking sound, dropping back against the cot, optics zipping everywhere but onto the copter.
Grindor blinked. Starscream didn’t mean…? Apparently he did. Grindor’s sensornet blazed back to life as he caught Barricade’s little window-wings fly high and tight in embarrassment. Whoa. Cute, and hot and…even hotter when aroused.
“And now,” Starscream directed. “Now that that is all clear, I see no reason why you two should not interface.”
“NOW?” Grindor’s rotors splayed.
“Wow, there’s a lot of stuff you just don’t get, Starscream,” Barricade muttered, shifting uncomfortably on the cot. “Seriously.”
“Oh hush, Barricade. I am merely doing away with these…needless maneuverings. He desires you—obviously.” The tone was wry. “You desire him. Sometimes, it really is that simple.” A little grinding sound, Starscream’s self-satisfied gesture of grinding his mouthplates together, happily.
Grindor got clumsily to his feet, his spike very much voicing its opinion. He looked hopefully at Barricade, who was considering him, optics traveling up and down his frame. “I…have rotors?” Grindor offered. This was way too weird, but…maybe the Air Commander was right. Needless maneuverings. Fun in combat, but…not really Grindor’s strong suit in life. And a real grounder. Not just a soft, smiling facsimile.
Barricade shot him a pained expression, but…behind that was a flicker of interest—the smaller set of optics—the adorably super cute tiny set—drifted over Grindor’s shoulders. Barricade shook his head. “What will you be doing, Starscream,” he asked, pointedly.
“Me?” Another pleased sound. “I shall be supervising.”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, you want me around in case you need more of my expertise, no?”
“Uh no, actually,” Barricade said. “Think we can manage.”
“Too bad for you, then,” Starscream said, smoothly. “I am embracing your little kinks for each other: you will embrace mine. I like to watch.”
“Ridiculous,” Barricade spat. “Seriously. I hate every single one of you airframes.”
“Do you?” Starscream laughed. “Now, Grindor. I highly recommend the tires.”
Tires. Real, actual tires, that were firm and still giving to the touch. And a real system they were attached to, that gave a squeak that melted into an adorable little moan. Grindor heard an answering whimper, one of pure desire, stir in his own vocalizer, his other hand grabbing for the sleek backplates, hauling the grounder up to him, shivering as he felt the little feet dangling helplessly against his thighs. Oh frag, this was better than he’d imagined. He nuzzled the tire, nipping it lightly, tasting the dark flavor of it, rolling it with his nasal plating, his own response an echo of the way Barricade’s talons suddenly clung to him, the fine points of the talons gripping in and along armor plates, the body squirming against his.
“You said,” Barricade gasped, “Something about rotors?”
Grindor grinned, burying his face in the throat that tilted up, exposing itself to him. “If you’re good.”
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