shadow_vector | Sky and Ground 8 Rough

Sticky, roughsex, dubcon

Barricade tilted his head back, enjoying the warm rain of dilute cleanser from the ceiling nozzles in the maintenance bay’s washrack. The cleanser stung, just a little, as it worked under dried and gummy exterior joint lubricant. He’d probably have to do a full body oil. Oh, no. That would be just dreadful, all that warm oil…he purred.

Skywarp and Starscream had been gone for an entire solar—some mysterious Seeker business, probably. Barricade wanted to make sure he looked—and smelled—decent for their return. Only one solar, and already he was feeling frisky. And a little lonely.

He should be back soon, Barricade told himself. Just enough time to get properly clean, maybe even clean your recharge station a bit. And…well, he’d let Skywarp decide from there. As long as it included him, he didn’t mind.

He reached behind his shoulder, directing the high-pressure hose into the tires mounted above his shoulders. He sighed with pleasure. That always felt good. He let the hose drift to his wing fairings behind his neck with another ex-vent of pure pleasure. Normally washrack time was a hurried affair for him—get in, get out, get back to work, or back to his recharge without having to talk to anyone. But he missed Skywarp. The hose’s pressure was no substitute for Skywarp’s touch, but it was still a new thing for him to think of physical contact as a pleasure.

He checked his internal chrono. He should probably go, if he wanted to oil and clean his recharge station. With a third sigh, reluctant this time, he shut off the hose and hung it back in its mount. He stood for a moment longer, rotating his tires under the fall of cleanser from the ceiling.

The next thing he knew, the cold steel of the wall was hard against his cheek and chassis, one arm twisted painfully up behind his back, the upper tire grating against the wall. An arm was strong behind his neck. A voice murmured in his audio.

“If you say ‘stop’, I will stop. Do you understand?”

Barricade blinked, trying to place the voice. It sounded familiar. Like he should know. But…he thought these days were over. Seems not. In the Seeker’s absence, he was just as vulnerable as before. His fault for daring to enjoy the wash. Should have known better.

The hand shoved at his shoulder. “Do you understand?”

“Y-yes.” He shifted his weight. His attacker was larger than he was, but maybe he could get a good kick in. His arm tire’s rubber skidded on the wet wall as he tried to free his trapped wrist. To turn. To see, at least, who would rape him this time. He didn’t know why he cared. But he wanted to know. “Who--?”

The hand torqued his wrist hard enough that the rim bent on his wrist tire. “I didn’t say you could ask questions, Barricade, did I?”

“No!” he gasped. “I just—“

“Unless you say ‘stop’, I continue.” A pause. Barricade started trembling. What was going on? Why didn’t he just get it over with? Why this pretense? The voice continued. “Skywarp said you wanted to try it rough. He doesn’t trust himself not to hurt you.”

“So…he…?” Trying to comprehend.

“Did I say you could ask questions?” The voice, impatient. Barricade was kliks away from placing it. So familiar.

“No,” he said, meekly.

“Good, Barricade. Now, relax.”

That was the word that did it for him—snapped to his recollection who it was. Onslaught. ONSLAUGHT?! He quivered. The hand left the back of his shoulders, tweaking one of his wing fairings and traveling down his torso. He remembered a little too vividly the last meeting with Onslaught—sprawled over the APC’s large frame, Onslaught’s hands maddeningly skilled on his interface equipment. In spite of himself, he moaned into the wall.

“The harder you fight, the harder I fight. You understand? You can make this as hard core as you want.”

“Yes,” he whispered, twitching as the large hand reached and unfastened the catch of his interface panel.

“Good,” Onslaught breathed. He caught the manual release of the spike cover with one finger, snapping it open. Barricade whimpered as the cleanser dripping from his chassis stung his spike. Onslaught spread his hand over Barricade’s crotch, managing to brush the valve cover, squeezing the base of the spike between the join of two of his fingers.

The mass behind him shifted. A little of the pressure eased on his twisted arm while the hand on his interface equipment tilted his pelvic frame back. Onslaught murmured again in his audio, “Say ‘stop’ and I will.” Barricade shivered, as if the cleanser had suddenly gone cold. His whole frame jerked as he felt Onslaught’s spike push into his valve. The larger mech paused, letting Barricade tremble at the sudden contact, his lubricant thick and warm against Barricade’s valve.

Both hands released him, running down around his body, his armored thighs, the smaller fairings of his hips. His one hand, from having been twisted behind his back, throbbed and was sluggish. He kept his cheek pressed to the wall, optics closed, his ventilation coming in short hot bursts that tasted a bit like fear. But not entirely.

Onslaught shifted inside him, beginning to thrust deeper into the valve, moving one hand to squeeze the sensitive mounts of his wing fairings. He whimpered, hands pressing against the wall, protesting…what? Torn between wanting this and not wanting this. Torn between desire and trust, and memory.

Onslaught wrapped one arm over his shoulder, pulling him off the wall, arching his central dorsal line over his larger chassis. Barricade gasped, the move changing the pressure nodes hit by the spike as Onslaught continued to thrust. He heard Onslaught’s ventilation hard in his audio, rasping, as if fighting for control. He felt his feet hauled off the ground as Onslaught wrapped his other arm around Barricade’s narrower waist, crushing the smaller mech against him. Barricade squirmed, his talons coming up to grab at Onslaught’s powerful arm, but even then, he didn’t have force enough to shift it. Afraid of being hurt? Or afraid of Onslaught stopping? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to have to know. He was suspended for a long moment in this strange sensation: wanting/fearing, feeling/knowing, trapped/released.

“Now,” Onslaught murmured in his ear, like an order. And somehow, somehow, his systems obeyed, throwing him from his moment of suspension into an overload that tore a loud cry from his vocalizer, his hands clutching wildly behind him, clawing at Onslaught’s armored arms. Onslaught grunted, once, and Barricade felt a wash of fluid in his valve. He moaned, feeling something nuzzle between his wing fairings.

“Good,” Onslaught muttered. “Trust me now?”

“Y-yes.”

“Want it rougher?”

He froze. He didn’t know. Onslaught replaced him gently on the ground, still keeping his spike lodged in the smaller mech’s valve.

“The word,” Onslaught said, patiently, “is ‘stop’.” He paused for a beat. When Barricade didn’t move, he swept Barricade’s feet out from under him, dropping him heavily onto his knees and palms he barely managed to throw out to break his fall. The impact jarred his shoulders, his head, blanking his optics for a moment. He twisted, experimentally. Onslaught reached for his arms again. Barricade pushed his feet against Onslaught’s thighs—the mech had knelt down the ground behind him—twisting, swinging one hand balled into a fist at Onslaught’s head—the weight of the tire adding heft to the swing.

The blow caught Onslaught on the shoulder. Barricade froze, for a klik, a little afraid of the retribution. He tried to scramble away, the cleanser slicking the floor with the lubricant and transfluid, causing his feet to lose traction. He fell onto his back, legs curled, ready to kick. “Get away!” he yelled.

Onslaught shook his head, patiently. “That is not the right way to make me stop, Barricade.” He lunged forward, grabbing one of Barricade’s ankles, hauling him back across the floor, dodging the kicks with the other foot easily. He pinned one leg with a knee on the inner thigh, compressing the control cabling and effectively cutting mobility to that leg. He looked down at Barricade for a long moment, his optics, behind their visor, raking over his exposed interface equipment, the spike fully extended in testimony of Barricade’s arousal. Barricade tried to squirm onto his side, his talons covering his spike. Onslaught caught his hands, pushing them away roughly.

The commander swung his other leg across Barricade’s hip, and before Barricade could register what was happening, sank Barricade’s spike into his valve. Onslaught’s optics flickered for a klik, and he exvented what sounded like a sigh. He bent over Barricade, swatting Barricade’s swinging arms aside as if they were harmless. “You have thirty kliks,” he said, his battlemask impassive, his eyes boring into Barricade’s. “Thirty. Better make them count.”

Thirty? To do what? As if to give him a hint, Onslaught ground his hips against Barricade’s. His spike responded with another push of lubricant. “Twenty-eight.” Onslaught raised his hips off of Barricade’s, directing the smaller mech’s hips. Barricade found himself driving his spike upward, into the valve, trying to brace his heels on the slippery floor to give him leverage, his hands clamped to Onslaught’s hips by the larger mech’s hands.

Onslaught’s optics dimmed, head tilted back, and against the warm fall of cleanser still raining from the ceiling Barricade could feel hot panting exvents across his chassis. Barricade felt an overload building along his spike’s systems. It wasn’t Skywarp, but..Skywarp sent him. Skywarp had…had him in the past. Just that common bond—that this had also been touched by, wanted by, Skywarp, transferred a sort of desirability to Onslaught. Close and almost there and….

Onslaught pushed himself off Barricade’s spike. “Time’s up.” Barricade lay for a moment, panting, gnashing his denta in frustration. Onslaught grabbed Barricade roughly by one of his upper tires, moving to flip him over onto his belly.

Barricade struck out, kicking Onslaught square in the chest, pushing off, and scrambling across the room. Before he could make the exit, Onslaught caught at his wrist, swinging him around and into the hard wall again, this time with force enough to white his sensornet for a second. He slid down the wall to the floor. Onslaught grabbed him by an ankle and a wrist to haul him away from the corner. Barricade squealed, raking his claws down Onslaught’s chassis, scoring the paint, gritting his jaw in satisfaction as Onslaught gasped in pain.

Onslaught snatched his hands, squeezing the wrist tires hard enough to send redline alarms to his main systems monitor. “Play as rough as you want,” he growled. He threw the wrists down, Barricade’s torso following through the movement. Barricade felt a broad hand push his shoulders into the floor, his arms pinned under his chassis, while the other hand thrust his legs apart. He felt Onslaught’s spike take him.

Primus, it felt…good. Fear blending with desire; pain throwing the pleasure into relief like a color complement. This wasn’t like before. Part of his spark clung to the knowledge—an absolute sure certain knowledge—that if he did say ‘stop,’ Onslaught would freeze. He was helpless, but somehow, he still had control, and the paradox was wreaking hell with his overload systems.

One leg was caught at the knee, wrapped around Onslaught’s hip, while the commander’s hand lightened the pressure across Barricade’s shoulders to twist at one of his wing fairings. Barricade cried out, the sound fading to a moan. Above him, Onslaught grunted, fierce sounds like “Kah!” with every thrust, his eyes unplaceable behind his visor.

Barricade shrieked, as Onslaught jerked hard on his wing fairing, the sudden pain causing him to lose control of his sensornet, skittering a diamond-hard overload across his system. He was one small parcel of wanting, and the pain and a rush of release and the dull thumping pressure of Onslaught’s pelvic frame against his valve were the boundaries of his world, the only known fixed points. He felt himself thrash in response to Onslaught’s own overload, the larger mech stopping to stroke soothing hands down Barricade’s spasming central line. And he felt, and saw, a large black shape, like a shadow, rise up from behind him, and swallow up Onslaught before it swallowed him up as well.

*****
“Barricade?” Skywarp’s voice was as gentle as warm cleanser in his audio. Beyond it he could hear the sound of rain from the ceiling taps. Barricade felt his optics online, and with an effort, turned his head to face the large shadow over him. Skywarp knelt over him, the broad spread of his torso blocking most of the cleanser-fall, looking down at him, red optics pinpointed in worry. “I’m sorry, spike. I thought…”

“No,” Barricade said, groggily, turning onto his back, almost surprised not to feel Onslaught’s heavy hand pressing him down again. “Don’t be sorry.”

“I—I thought you would like it.”

Barricade smiled. “Did. Not very often,but….” He could feel Onslaught’s hand on his shoulder, pinning him down, hear the soft, dispassionate voice. He shivered at the memory.

“I couldn’t watch anymore,” Skywarp said, miserably. “He looked like he was hurting you.”

“Wasn’t hurting me.”

“Little spike, you were screaming.” His voice tentative, as if not really wanting to disagree. He ducked in and brushed his mouth over Barricade’s—as if afraid to push him too far. Barricade curled his arms behind Skywarp’s neck and pulled him down into a long and proper kiss that left the black jet growling with desire. Barricade stopped himself, realizing it was the most aggressive thing he’d done to Skywarp. Normally he barely dared to touch him. He pulled back.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Barricade,” Skywarp said, shifting to lay next to him on the floor of the washrack, dropping his head to brush against the white armor of Barricade’s upper arm. “I-I can’t do that to you. I can’t hurt you. Like…you…need.” He turned his face away, staring at a swirl of silvery transfluid getting washed away by the falling cleanser, before his eyelids shuttered hard.

Barricade pushed himself up. “Don’t need it.” He brushed his talons down Skywarp’s broad jaw.

“Starscream does. I can’t even do that to him as hard as he wants.” Skywarp’s voice was thick with failure, his optics staunchly shut.

“’M not Starscream,” Barricade said, petulantly. “And,” he shuttered the larger two of his optics, bracing himself to say this, “Need you more than anything.” He felt himself cringe down, as if trying to create distance between himself and the raw, honest words.

Skywarp bowed his head. “But I will hurt you. Just not how you want.”

“I-I’m willing to…let that happen,” he whispered, the pronoun coming hard to his vocalizer. I? Who am I? How dare I say or claim anything? I am nothing. I am the spikerag of every mech on the ship. No. I was. Now I am not. Something different, something more. Because of….

Skywarp looked up, his optics unshuttered. The irises spiralled wide, huge, so large that he could see tiny flaws in the lenses, sparkling like little jewels. “Maybe I’m not,” he whispered, “But I’m beginning to think I’m not in as much control as I ever thought I was.”

Next: Tribunal