shadow_vector

R?
Bayverse
Barricade/Starscream
tactile interfacing, angst, fluff
written for

5_times 'Pride' Sorry, in the need for writing comfort-stuff for myself.

Pride makes us artificial, humility makes us real.

Barricade was at the end of his proverbial rope. He hated everyone on the slaggin’ ship and more than that, hated himself. Trust him to develop the most pathetic torch-songy crush on…of all mechs…Starscream. You know. The one everyone else hated. Arrogant, stuck up, too good for anyone jerkjet?

He couldn’t help it. Fraggin’ jet. He told himself it was, you know, the Earth alt-mode—the broad shoulders, wingflaps folded flat against them, the long, double jointed legs with the barbed toes. The way the jet tilted his head before he said something sarcastic. His cortex called him stupid, but his sensornet did not care. At all.

Just Barricade’s slaggin’ luck.

Which would have been bad enough if, at least, Starscream seemed to notice he existed. Well, technically he did, you know. Called him on the rosters and asked, blandly, boredly, for status reports from The Science Officer Barricade. Barricade didn’t want to be just Science Officer, though. Oh, he’d tried that route. He’d tried impressing Starscream with his cogent reports, stayed after duty cycle, working up graphics, scenarios, applications. And all he’d gotten for it was…undercharged.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. Okay, desperate mechs called for desperate measures. And Barricade was desperate. He could barely recharge; the bronze jet haunted his waking moments. But…rejection? He teetered on agony, thinking that perhaps it was better to linger in uncertainty rather than to try, and fail.

A good cleanse would help, right? Get his cortex off the jet, give him some time to think. He headed grimly to the washrack as soon as his shift ended. Not his usual schedule, and not a normal time to hit the washracks, but that meant that maybe he’d have it all to himself, and would be able to stay there till he got his slaggin’ stupid head straight.

Primus hated him.

This drove him out from behind the relative, though miserable, safety of his indecision: Starscream in the washracks. Armor locks popped, systems naked, bare to the warm cleanser spray, optics tilted up into the fall of warm liquid from the ceiling taps. Completely heedless of anything around him other than the luxurious foaming warmth of the cleanser on his battle-dirtied cables.

Barricade squeaked, skidding to a halt, as if all of his joints locked up. Frag. Oh frag, the jet was…gorgeous. And yeah, he felt pretty fraggin’ stupid even thinking the word. But…nothing else fit.

Starscream turned under the cleanser taps, turning his head downward, letting cleanser seep over his collar armor and clavicular struts, unfolding the wingflaps.

The unconscious grace and power of the gesture was intoxicating, overwhelming. A soft whimper escaped Barricade’s vocalizer.

Starscream whirled, optics red and blazing, angry at being caught in a private moment. “What are you doing here?” he hissed. Cleanser runneled over the cheekflares, glossing them so that they sparkled in the light. The armor locks snapped closed over his chassis.

A public washrack? Cleansing? A thousand retorts ranging from witty to sarcastic to downright lame foamed in Barricade’s processor, but all that came out was a garbled syllable, his optics wide and red, so wide that the light almost burned them, before he whirled and dashed out of the room.

Pride is not Vanity

Needless to say, Barricade found an excuse to excuse himself from the next Command Level briefing. Calling in mortified, he figured. But he couldn’t imagine himself sitting down the table from Starscream. He could barely get the images out of his memory cache—the jet sleek and glistening and wet—he did not need a refresher. Or the struggle to concentrate on business while looking at him. Yeah. Good time to catch up on some, you know, paperwork.

Right. Like he could do that.

Then again, he hadn’t been in the Decepticons this long without knowing how to make a small task last alllllllll day. Sort of an art form, really. So, yeah, sorry, but Intelligence Officer (who was feeling anything but intelligent right now) was just a little too busy to attend the briefing. He sent Dead End in his place. Starscream probably wouldn’t be able to see out around his own ego to notice the substitution.

So Barricade had a whole cycle to himself—at least—and with nothing to do.

Except think about Starscream.

Frag. That was a flaw in his plan. This would NOT help him get over it, at all.

And it didn’t. Dancing in front of his optics the entire span of the meeting, even when he’d called up his favorite time-wasting strategy game, were images of Starscream. A wet, glistening jet, moving, pleasured, delighted, under the cleanser spray, or unfolding his wings to transform, or racing alongside the ship to the hangar or…yeah, he had a disturbingly large amount of images of his temporary leader that he found really hot.

Well, that wasn’t working. He shut down his game. Nothing left to do but—gasp—actual work. He called up the next task. A mission analysis. Okay, that would take all of his attention and no small amount of time. AND it would make his whole ‘too busy’ claim look legit.

He clicked the keys and the battle began playing out, captured from several angles by camera drones.

And…in the middle of battle…Starscream.

Frag! It’s like Primus truly, truly hated him. But somehow he couldn’t manage to turn the replay off, his optics devouring the jet in combat. That, his cortex murmured, is where he got the dirt he was washing off when you saw him.

He couldn’t help himself. It was like his talons had minds of their own, and before he knew it, he’d created a nice looped video of Starscream’s transformation. Back and forth. And back. The way the weight shifted, the way the plates slid over themselves, the way the armaments bristled open….

He was squirming in his chair, frustrated and foolish, when the door coded open.

“Barricade!”

Barricade jumped, his talons ringing against the chair’s arms, hurriedly slapping at the display control. The battle footage winked out. But not fast enough. Still, though, too fast to be innocent.

“I was busy!” Barricade snapped, hurriedly. Busy squirming and having decidedly impure and definitely un-battle-analysis thoughts about the jet who loomed in the doorway of his work cube. But yeah, that totally counted as busy.

“You missed the meeting.” The tone was cutting, haughty. And it was totally turning Barricade on. He wondered if Starscream talked like that…you know. While interfacing. If he was a demanding lover. Maybe a bit into the kinky stuff. Which would be so much more than fine with Barricade!

“Busy,” he said, but his own voice was a little…quivery. From lust. Like whoa.

Starscream stepped into the room, optics spiraling narrower, dubious. “Busy. With what?” He reached over, before Barricade could answer, and prodded the display back on with one long silver finger.

The battle sprang to life in full incriminating color. The jet tilted his head, amused. “Ah. I admire your dedication to duty, Barricade,” he said, his voice just on the balance of sincerity. “And your analysis thus far?” he prompted.

That you’re hot? “I, uh…I like to get the whole plan first. You know. Holistic view of the battle.”

He cringed as Starscream tapped the replay key and the looped video of his transformation popped up. “Oh,” Starscream said, his voice deceptively mild. “I see. Part of your ‘holistic’ view?”

Right. Well, Barricade wasn’t the best tactician out there, but he was better than most, and he knew when it was time to just…abandon the battlefield. He jumped out of his chair. “Uh, urgent maintenance code just popped up. Have to go take care of it.” He zoomed around the jet, making a wild dash to the door.

Behind him, he heard the jet say, “Urgent—oh.” Starscream’s optics resettled on the playback. “I am,” he mused, “quite entrancing.”

Shame is pride’s cloak.

Starscream had invited himself, apparently, using his security overrides, into Barricade’s recharge cube. He lounged in the doorway, idly flicking his wingflap. “Now, Barricade,” he said, his voice silky, “it has come to my attention that you wish to interface with me.”

When in doubt, pretend outrage. That was one of Barricade’s personal rules. Along with ‘deny, deny, and then throw someone else under the bus.’ “What? This is ridiculous. No way!” Enough, he thought. Not too much or you blow the whole thing.

Starscream tilted his head, idly. Completely ignoring all the hard work Barricade had put into his feigned outrage. “It is only natural, of course. I am devastatingly attractive.” He trailed a hand over his clavicular struts.

The arrogance, the sheer narcissism was like a thick fog in the air. A fog that caused some sort of cortical confusion, apparently, because while part of Barricade knew he should be offended, another part, the part in charge of his sensor net, was impossibly aroused.

This is some sort of hideous kink, Barricade, he admonished himself. Fraggin’ depraved to be turned on by this self-righteously clicking and purring bastard. “Get over yourself,” he muttered. There, that should do it. A bit of insubordination, to boot.

The jet turned, smiling sweetly at him. “I will…as soon as you do.” Starscream pushed off the wall, sidling toward him.

Barricade’s optics flew wide open. “Back off, jet!”

“Or?” Starscream continued to approach, his optics flickering with mirth.

“Or…or you’ll be sorry!” Yeah, okay, lame. Totally lame. BEYOND lame. The sheer lameness of the lame should have repelled the jet. But it didn’t. Barricade was…fragged.

Well, not quite. “Really?” Starscream was a handspan away, his EM field buzzing against Barricade’s. He squatted down, his foreknees pushing forward with seductive hydraulic releases. “I suspect I shall not, in fact, be sorry.” One long arm reached around Barricade, tweaking at one of his window wings. “Nor you.”

Barricade shuddered. Because this was doing very, very wrong things to his sensornet. As in white-hot lust wrong. As in find-yourself-melting wrong. As in look-into-the-optics-gloating-down-at-you-and-not-even-care-as-long-as-he-keeps-touching-you-like-that wrong.

Temper gets you into trouble. Pride keeps you there.

Barricade onlined slowly, languorously. He felt…really good. Loose, relaxed, warm. And…slightly squished.

Possibly because of an enormous airframe on top of him. Like a big, heavy, lumpy blanket. Oh frag, what had happened?

His somatic memory cache helpfully supplied him with details—long silver talons sliding over his transformation seams, reaching under to tease at his wiring. The jet, purring hard enough to vibrate the berth, asking Barricade to transform into his vehicle mode, stating, coyly, that apparently Barricade had watched him transform for pleasure. Barricade had gone rigid with embarrassment, before deciding the better part of…something was to hide his mortification in his vehicle mode.

“Delicious,” the jet had cooed, sliding his hands over the panels. “All this armor.” He’d tweaked his thumbs over Barricade’s grille, the smaller mech whimpering, quivering helplessly. The jet had flipped him over, effortlessly, burying his mouth against Barricade’s undercarriage, licking, teasing, laughing against the exposed mechanisms, while Barricade was helpless to do anything but bleat and wriggle and spin his tires.

And…it had gone from there, so that Barricade’s sensornet was still on that verge of overstimulation, where the dim light seemed extra bright, and the satin of the jet’s armor was like velvet against him. But…he’d done nothing. The jet, unsated, had simply curled up on top of him after he’d finally burst out of his vehicle mode, wracked with the overload, charge shimmer-dancing over his frame.

Frag, Barricade, he rebuked himself. You suck as an interface partner. Seriously. You wanted and wanted and…frag. Probably thinks he’s too good for you, anyway. Probably laughing about the whole thing. Probably laughed the whole time at how pathetically, entirely aroused you were. Loser.

He began wriggling out from under the mass of the jet, sliding along to cooled metal, unwarmed by their bodily contact, easing himself free. One foot, one arm, his pelvic span, until one shoulder remained.

A hand plopped down upon him, one optic shutter lazing open. “Leaving?”

Barricade frowned. “Yeah.”

“Why?” Starscream’s head rested on the berth. His fingers began stroking along Barricade’s side. Barricade felt his systems respond, pleasurable tingles racing over his net. No. Not going to be made fun of again. Stupid, stuck up jet.

“Got work to do.” He twisted away so that Starscream didn’t see his face.

“Surely this,” the jet trailed a lazy hand lightly over one of his doorwings, “is more preferable to…work.” He said the last word as though it tasted bad.

Barricade’s systems agreed, violently. That part of him wanted nothing more than to sit still, let the jet continue his exploration of Barricade’s back, quiver and whimper, helpless with desire.

Then there was that part of him that had a fraggin’ shred of self-respect. And that told him to get out of there—even though it was his own fraggin’ recharge cube, and come back when he’d rediscovered his spinal struts.

“Work,” he said, and pushed himself off the berth, snatching his window wing from the jet’s grasp.

And discovering all new ways of hating himself.

Pride goeth before a fall.

Barricade hunched in his chair in the Briefing Room. Yeah, he’d tried to avoid before, and look what that had gotten him. Well, laid, right, but, well you know…. He could tell that Starscream was snickering at him, could tell by the way the jet’s tilted optics kept drifting over to him, the way that he had trilled Barricade’s name when it was his turn to give his report. Fraggin’ jet was gloating.

Barricade buried his attention in his datapad, but one rebellious optic kept spotting the jet. Just…keeping aware of his location, he told himself. Just making sure.

The meeting broke up—finally!!!—but as Barricade was gathering his input rods, Starscream said, “Barricade, I would like to discuss something with you. Stay after.” Barricade’s window-wings snapped rigid behind him as other, exiting mechs gave him semi-sympathetic tsks and shakes of their heads. Brawl muttered, “Turbotoast,” as he pushed by.

That’s about what Barricade felt like as the jet approached. Barricade stood up, so at least the height difference wasn’t…well…that obvious. “What?” he said, surly.

“Barricade.” The jet’s voice was crisp, sharp. “You have been impossibly rude.”

“I…what?” He blinked. “I missed ONE meeting. I was busy!” he said, defensive. The lie sounded even thinner now.

“Busy, yes.” Starscream leaned over, his optics ranging close. “Always busy. ‘Work’.”

Where the slag was this going? “Yes. Work.” He clutched the datapad in front of him like an impromptu weapon.

“Work is no excuse for your actions.” The optics narrowed to slits.

“What actions?!” Barricade was confused. Was Starscream…crazy? Was that why no one interfaced with him? “I haven’t done anything!”

“That,” the jet said, tartly, “Is precisely the problem.” He waited, giving a frustrated sigh. “Are you so ignorant!? I interfaced with you. You did not reciprocate.” The mouthplates worked.

“You…wanted me to?”

Starscream huffed, crossing his arms over his chassis. “It is called ‘INTERfacing’. It is supposed to be mutual.” The sleek silver head turned abruptly away. And suddenly, it all fell into place. He was the only Seeker on the ship. He was the Commander. He was arrogant and abrasive and caustic and…no one wanted him.

He hadn’t come to Barricade’s room to force himself on the grounder to laugh at him; his technique wasn’t confident, it had been clumsy and awkward, giving and just…hoping for return.

And Barricade had been too wrapped up in himself to notice. “I can…maybe…make it up to you?” He reached one hand up to stroke the powerful forearm the jet had crossed in front of his chassis.

Starscream’s optics flicked back to him, the mouth working again, as if grinding down an objection or a kernel of pride. “I am quite upset. You will have to work very hard to earn my forgiveness.” The sudden, sly glint in Starscream’s optics made Barricade wonder if he hadn’t just been taken in after all.

But you know what? He didn’t care. He tossed the datapad and input rods noisily on the table, hooking his talons under the jet’s armor, pulling him close. “Guess I’d better get started.”

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Eeeeee! I can imagine him flinging himself with abandon into the new "reparations" his Air Commander requires.

♥

My reactions to this fic was either giggling or uuuhhh hotness. XD

oh barricade. you are so stupidly adorable when going all "guh" over starscream.

your icon made me snort soda.

just fyi

ouch! i'm sorry that it was soda! that's painful! but still better than booze.

I have the I Like Big Bots (http://www.snorgtees.com/i-like-big-bots) tee and find myself singing the song often with the Bot lyrics. there is another with Optimus that says "I like big bots and I can not lie" :D

oh man I need that shirt. *_*
and yeah I've seen the Optimus one.. and always find myself singing the song and imagining the Transformers dancing to it... mmm hmm... got me goin' like a turbo 'vette.

it is an awesome shirt.

i've tried rewriting the song for bots... it's working well!

"got me goin' like a turbo 'vette." has me totally thinking of Fett's Vette but now i'm crossing over into other nerdy fandoms! ^__^

pprrrriiiii~ Their ineptitude toward each other is... impossibly endearing. So cute each wrapped up in their own pride.

Hee! They are both so impossibly self-conscious that it's adorable. And quite cheering when they finally do get on with it!

Pride

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