Valentine's Ficlets Take One
Mar. 7th, 2015 05:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22So last month I participated in this thing on tumblr prompted by vintage-mechanics to do fourteen days of proper/consensual BDSM to help combat the wave of FSOG-themed stuff that was getting shoved down our throats. (haha)
I've finally had the time to sit down and clean up those fourteen fics. Some I'll be posting indivudually as I ended up expanding them. Some I've paired together. And others I'll be posting as part of Database in Transmission. The two I have today are of the last type. And they are mostly sfw. Enjoy!
Title: Buff This
Universe: Transformers Prime, post-Predacons Rising
Characters: Knock OutxSmokescreen
Rating: T
Warnings: implied smut, aftercare, implied BDSM
Description: Knock Out always takes care of Smokescreen first.
Title: Inspection
Universe: G1
Characters: Tracks/Sunstreaker
Rating: T
Warning: dom/sub relationship
Description: Patience had been his first lesson.
a/n: Two down, twelve more to go! I'm slowly but surely working through these.
As always. Feedback is very welcome and appreciated.
I've finally had the time to sit down and clean up those fourteen fics. Some I'll be posting indivudually as I ended up expanding them. Some I've paired together. And others I'll be posting as part of Database in Transmission. The two I have today are of the last type. And they are mostly sfw. Enjoy!
Title: Buff This
Universe: Transformers Prime, post-Predacons Rising
Characters: Knock OutxSmokescreen
Rating: T
Warnings: implied smut, aftercare, implied BDSM
Description: Knock Out always takes care of Smokescreen first.
This was Smokescreen's favorite part.
Oh, the rest of it was slagging awesome. Mind-blowing and delicious and hot.
But this?
This turned the fiery inferno of lust and need into a warm bloom of comfort in the core of his internals. This made his engine purr, his fingers tingle, and his spark sing. It made him want to tackle Knock Out to the berth and return the favor.
Knock Out had the most beautiful and talented hands.
Smokescreen said as much even as he stretched across the berth, as relaxed as though he were neck-deep in an oil bath.
Knock Out chuckled, just audible over the soft whine of the buffer.
“Yes, I know,” he said, never one to be modest. “But I appreciate the compliment all the same.”
Knock Out's paint was scratched and marked blue and white. Every scrape was a reminder of their recent activities and a boost to the heat still simmering in Smokescreen's lines.
But Knock Out still always buffed Smokescreen first. Knock Out refused to call end until Smokescreen shone like a newforge and his plating was perfection.
“It will always feel good,” he'd promised. “And I'll never hurt you beyond what I can fix.”
Smokescreen had accepted that vow and offered his trust in return. A century later and Knock Out had yet to betray him.
It was all the reassurance Smokescreen needed.
He let his doors wriggle, calling attention to them. Knock Out had said to be still but part of Smokescreen's charm was his insubordination.
“Oh. Someone's still in a playful mood.”
Smokescreen tracked Knock Out's movements with his sensors and flexed another door panel. “I do seem to have some extra charge here.”
The buffer cut off with a noisy ker-klunk.
One long finger tickled the bottom of Smokescreen's foot. “Well, we can't have that, can we? Sure you're up for another round?”
Smokescreen revved his engine and popped his panel, baring his connector. A thin snap of charge lit the air with invitation.
“I'm sure,” he purred.
The buffing afterward was his favorite part, Smokescreen reflected.
But this?
Hands and mouth and teeth and tongue and--
Hnnn.
Yeah. This was good, too.
Oh, the rest of it was slagging awesome. Mind-blowing and delicious and hot.
But this?
This turned the fiery inferno of lust and need into a warm bloom of comfort in the core of his internals. This made his engine purr, his fingers tingle, and his spark sing. It made him want to tackle Knock Out to the berth and return the favor.
Knock Out had the most beautiful and talented hands.
Smokescreen said as much even as he stretched across the berth, as relaxed as though he were neck-deep in an oil bath.
Knock Out chuckled, just audible over the soft whine of the buffer.
“Yes, I know,” he said, never one to be modest. “But I appreciate the compliment all the same.”
Knock Out's paint was scratched and marked blue and white. Every scrape was a reminder of their recent activities and a boost to the heat still simmering in Smokescreen's lines.
But Knock Out still always buffed Smokescreen first. Knock Out refused to call end until Smokescreen shone like a newforge and his plating was perfection.
“It will always feel good,” he'd promised. “And I'll never hurt you beyond what I can fix.”
Smokescreen had accepted that vow and offered his trust in return. A century later and Knock Out had yet to betray him.
It was all the reassurance Smokescreen needed.
He let his doors wriggle, calling attention to them. Knock Out had said to be still but part of Smokescreen's charm was his insubordination.
“Oh. Someone's still in a playful mood.”
Smokescreen tracked Knock Out's movements with his sensors and flexed another door panel. “I do seem to have some extra charge here.”
The buffer cut off with a noisy ker-klunk.
One long finger tickled the bottom of Smokescreen's foot. “Well, we can't have that, can we? Sure you're up for another round?”
Smokescreen revved his engine and popped his panel, baring his connector. A thin snap of charge lit the air with invitation.
“I'm sure,” he purred.
The buffing afterward was his favorite part, Smokescreen reflected.
But this?
Hands and mouth and teeth and tongue and--
Hnnn.
Yeah. This was good, too.
Title: Inspection
Universe: G1
Characters: Tracks/Sunstreaker
Rating: T
Warning: dom/sub relationship
Description: Patience had been his first lesson.
Patience was part of the training.
Sunstreaker knew that Tracks came off-shift at sunset. He knew that Tracks stopped by the common room for a chat, sometimes lingering to watch a movie or play a game of cards. Especially if he didn't have an early shift or Mirage was around for a chat.
Sunstreaker knew all this, that his chronometer read ten minutes past sunset. But he waited in Tracks' quarters anyway. He waited for Tracks to return, helm bowed and hands crossed at the wrists behind his back. They weren't bound in any way, except for the verbal restrictions placed on his movement.
He had polished himself to an expert shine, one he knew would be thoroughly inspected. And if there was so much as a tiny flaw, he would be punished. Perfection, however, granted him rewards.
Sometimes, one could be as good as the other.
Sunstreaker shivered, his spark yearning. He kept half his attention on his chronometer and did not move. He was not allowed to do so and it didn't matter that Tracks wasn't currently watching.
Sunstreaker had his orders and he would obey.
He waited.
Precisely thirty minutes later, he heard the door unlock and Tracks enter. Sunstreaker did not raise his helm. He waited to be acknowledged.
He sensed Tracks moving around him, felt the weight of his inspection. Sunstreaker's fans clicked on, a loud noise in the silence, one that escaped his control.
Tracks made a contemplative hum but whether it was disappointment or approval, Sunstreaker could not say.
A finger slid across his right shoulder tire. “Your finish is impeccable today,” Tracks commented. “Yet, your self-control is lacking.”
Praise and rebuke all at once. Sunstreaker would have sagged except that it would have ruined his posture and Tracks did not approve.
“Hmm. Perhaps I can overlook the transgression for today.”
Tracks circled to his front and one finger nudged Sunstreaker's helm upward so that their optics could meet. There was a curve to the corner of Tracks' mouth – approval – and his field nudged against Sunstreaker's in silent demand to be allowed access. Sunstreaker obliged, a minute shiver attacking his frame as the force of Tracks' appreciation sizzled over him.
That same finger traced a line down Sunstreaker's chin and intake until it hooked into the thin tungsten band around Sunstreaker's throat. The bare tug, the claim, sent ripples of desire through Sunstreaker's field. He couldn't have held himself back if he tried.
“When's your next shift?” Tracks asked.
“Sunrise.”
Tracks' grin became a smirk, his field pushing harder against Sunstreaker's, as though trying to seep into the nooks and crannies of his frame.
“That's unfortunate,” Tracks purred and he stepped closer, their frames inches apart, his finger still curled around Sunstreaker's collar. “Because it seems you are going to be late for it.”
Sunstreaker's engine revved. Tracks must have spent his entire shift devising the plans for their rendezvous.
“I'll be sent to the brig,” Sunstreaker said. Not an argument, merely a statement of fact.
Tracks' finger nudged against his intake, a teasing tickle. “I'm aware of that,” he said, and his other hand traced Sunstreaker's grill. “Because I have guard shift tomorrow.”
Oh.
So it was to be one of those sessions then.
Sunstreaker's optics burned bright.
Tracks was going to make the brig-time worth it.
Then again, Sunstreaker couldn't think of a time Tracks disappointed him.
Sunstreaker knew that Tracks came off-shift at sunset. He knew that Tracks stopped by the common room for a chat, sometimes lingering to watch a movie or play a game of cards. Especially if he didn't have an early shift or Mirage was around for a chat.
Sunstreaker knew all this, that his chronometer read ten minutes past sunset. But he waited in Tracks' quarters anyway. He waited for Tracks to return, helm bowed and hands crossed at the wrists behind his back. They weren't bound in any way, except for the verbal restrictions placed on his movement.
He had polished himself to an expert shine, one he knew would be thoroughly inspected. And if there was so much as a tiny flaw, he would be punished. Perfection, however, granted him rewards.
Sometimes, one could be as good as the other.
Sunstreaker shivered, his spark yearning. He kept half his attention on his chronometer and did not move. He was not allowed to do so and it didn't matter that Tracks wasn't currently watching.
Sunstreaker had his orders and he would obey.
He waited.
Precisely thirty minutes later, he heard the door unlock and Tracks enter. Sunstreaker did not raise his helm. He waited to be acknowledged.
He sensed Tracks moving around him, felt the weight of his inspection. Sunstreaker's fans clicked on, a loud noise in the silence, one that escaped his control.
Tracks made a contemplative hum but whether it was disappointment or approval, Sunstreaker could not say.
A finger slid across his right shoulder tire. “Your finish is impeccable today,” Tracks commented. “Yet, your self-control is lacking.”
Praise and rebuke all at once. Sunstreaker would have sagged except that it would have ruined his posture and Tracks did not approve.
“Hmm. Perhaps I can overlook the transgression for today.”
Tracks circled to his front and one finger nudged Sunstreaker's helm upward so that their optics could meet. There was a curve to the corner of Tracks' mouth – approval – and his field nudged against Sunstreaker's in silent demand to be allowed access. Sunstreaker obliged, a minute shiver attacking his frame as the force of Tracks' appreciation sizzled over him.
That same finger traced a line down Sunstreaker's chin and intake until it hooked into the thin tungsten band around Sunstreaker's throat. The bare tug, the claim, sent ripples of desire through Sunstreaker's field. He couldn't have held himself back if he tried.
“When's your next shift?” Tracks asked.
“Sunrise.”
Tracks' grin became a smirk, his field pushing harder against Sunstreaker's, as though trying to seep into the nooks and crannies of his frame.
“That's unfortunate,” Tracks purred and he stepped closer, their frames inches apart, his finger still curled around Sunstreaker's collar. “Because it seems you are going to be late for it.”
Sunstreaker's engine revved. Tracks must have spent his entire shift devising the plans for their rendezvous.
“I'll be sent to the brig,” Sunstreaker said. Not an argument, merely a statement of fact.
Tracks' finger nudged against his intake, a teasing tickle. “I'm aware of that,” he said, and his other hand traced Sunstreaker's grill. “Because I have guard shift tomorrow.”
Oh.
So it was to be one of those sessions then.
Sunstreaker's optics burned bright.
Tracks was going to make the brig-time worth it.
Then again, Sunstreaker couldn't think of a time Tracks disappointed him.
a/n: Two down, twelve more to go! I'm slowly but surely working through these.
As always. Feedback is very welcome and appreciated.
