dracoqueen22 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dracoqueen22) wrote2015-05-23 11:54 am
dracoqueen22) wrote2015-05-23 11:54 am
Flash Fiction Fills Take 60
a/n: Good afternoon! Here be all the flash fiction that aren't either a) part of a series or b) long enough to stand on their own. :) Enjoy! Oh, and these are self-edited. Beware the errant commas.
For nkfloofiepoof
Prompt: anything with the cassettes, author's choice went for Frenzy, Rumble, and threw in Bumblebee
Fandom: Transformers G1 (actually part of an ongoing BRumble series that's on tumblr). Warnings: None. SFW
For Skywinder
Prompt: Skyfire and Megatron, Gen, “don't underestimate me”
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings: character death, dark fic, (I'm so very sorry, my mind can be a terrible place)
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: FlashBat, “Bruce did not like broken things.”
Fandom: Justice League DCAU, related to this but can be read without it. Warnings: angst, but SFW
For fuzipenguin
Prompt: TFP ArceexWheeljack, “let's see what we can make go boom"
Fandom: Transformers Prime, part of this, which I now anticipate becoming a series. Contains mentions of ArceexWheeljackxBulkhead. Warnings: NSFW, sticky, dom/sub, overload delay, sex toys, sounding, gagging
a/n: A couple of these I may just pull out, expand a little, and repost. One never quite knows. So if you didn't see yours, it's either in the process of being written (I'm looking at you stubborn piece of Art of Self-Destruction) or it's going to be posted separately. :)
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
For nkfloofiepoof
Prompt: anything with the cassettes, author's choice went for Frenzy, Rumble, and threw in Bumblebee
Fandom: Transformers G1 (actually part of an ongoing BRumble series that's on tumblr). Warnings: None. SFW
Rumble couldn't stop staring and judging by the way Frenzy kept snickering at him, his brother knew it, too.
Rumble tossed his brother a sour look, but inevitably, his optics wandered back toward Bumblebee who was picking his way through a box of energon goodies in a positively obscene fashion.
He nibbled at them. And sucked out the fillings. And smacked his lips noisily. And then lapped his fingers clean. And licked his lips.
Only to select another goodie from the box and start the process all over again.
“You gonna eat that?” Bumblebee asked, blue optics bright and innocent.
Rumble blinked. “Huh?”
Frenzy fell over in his chair and lay on the floor, laughing his aft off.
“You've been holding it since we first opened the box,” Bumblebee pointed out with a shrug. He peered back into the box, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth as his optics roamed the selection.
Rumble stared down at his hand. Oh. Yeah. He should probably eat this, right? After all, the box of goodies was supposed to be a reward for all three of them. A special treat because they'd not only come out in the black in their finances, but Bumblebee had successfully completed his first theft.
But... if Rumble ate it then Bumblebee couldn't and that... that would probably be a tragedy.
“I'm not really a fan of these,” Rumble said and he tossed it toward Bumblebee, whose skills had improved enough he caught it without looking. “Enjoy?”
Bumblebee smirked and flipped it up into his mouth. “I intend to. More for me then.” His optics flicked to Frenzy, whose laughter had devolved to gasps and clicks of his fans. Bumblebee didn't even look surprised.
He'd learned, by now, that sometimes you just had to smile and nod when it came to Frenzy.
“I'm going to eat them all if you don't get up off the floor,” Bumblebee announced, nudging Frenzy with the tip of his pede.
Frenzy giggled and flopped over on his side, facing the both of them. “Well,” he said. “I'd hate to ruin Rumble's fun. Have 'em all, Bee.”
“Shut up!” Rumble hissed and he grabbed the nearest object, tossing a mesh pillow at his loudmouthed twin.
Frenzy didn't bother to duck.
“Thanks,” Bumblebee chirped and selected one of the sweeter ones.
Like all the others before it, he nibbled off the top, sucked out the filling, and licked the insides clean. Only then did he eat the rest. And oh no, he dribbled a little on his fingers. Better take care of that.
Rumble's fans clicked on.
Frenzy cackled.
Rumble was pretty sure Bumblebee was doing this on purpose.
And Rumble was damn sure he didn't want Bumblebee to stop.
Rumble tossed his brother a sour look, but inevitably, his optics wandered back toward Bumblebee who was picking his way through a box of energon goodies in a positively obscene fashion.
He nibbled at them. And sucked out the fillings. And smacked his lips noisily. And then lapped his fingers clean. And licked his lips.
Only to select another goodie from the box and start the process all over again.
“You gonna eat that?” Bumblebee asked, blue optics bright and innocent.
Rumble blinked. “Huh?”
Frenzy fell over in his chair and lay on the floor, laughing his aft off.
“You've been holding it since we first opened the box,” Bumblebee pointed out with a shrug. He peered back into the box, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth as his optics roamed the selection.
Rumble stared down at his hand. Oh. Yeah. He should probably eat this, right? After all, the box of goodies was supposed to be a reward for all three of them. A special treat because they'd not only come out in the black in their finances, but Bumblebee had successfully completed his first theft.
But... if Rumble ate it then Bumblebee couldn't and that... that would probably be a tragedy.
“I'm not really a fan of these,” Rumble said and he tossed it toward Bumblebee, whose skills had improved enough he caught it without looking. “Enjoy?”
Bumblebee smirked and flipped it up into his mouth. “I intend to. More for me then.” His optics flicked to Frenzy, whose laughter had devolved to gasps and clicks of his fans. Bumblebee didn't even look surprised.
He'd learned, by now, that sometimes you just had to smile and nod when it came to Frenzy.
“I'm going to eat them all if you don't get up off the floor,” Bumblebee announced, nudging Frenzy with the tip of his pede.
Frenzy giggled and flopped over on his side, facing the both of them. “Well,” he said. “I'd hate to ruin Rumble's fun. Have 'em all, Bee.”
“Shut up!” Rumble hissed and he grabbed the nearest object, tossing a mesh pillow at his loudmouthed twin.
Frenzy didn't bother to duck.
“Thanks,” Bumblebee chirped and selected one of the sweeter ones.
Like all the others before it, he nibbled off the top, sucked out the filling, and licked the insides clean. Only then did he eat the rest. And oh no, he dribbled a little on his fingers. Better take care of that.
Rumble's fans clicked on.
Frenzy cackled.
Rumble was pretty sure Bumblebee was doing this on purpose.
And Rumble was damn sure he didn't want Bumblebee to stop.
For Skywinder
Prompt: Skyfire and Megatron, Gen, “don't underestimate me”
Fandom: Transformers G1. Warnings: character death, dark fic, (I'm so very sorry, my mind can be a terrible place)
How long had they been fighting?
Centuries by his mark. Millennia truthfully, though he wasn't sure if he should count the four million year sleep.
Either way, it was far too long. Skyfire was done with it. Tired of it. He'd sat back and he'd listened to them bicker. He'd watched Optimus, trapped in his morality. He'd observed Megatron, trapped in his insanity.
He'd heard Prowl and Jazz as they reacted, instead of being proactive. As they listened to their leader without realizing the long-term implications. He cringed as Starscream seemed only capable of prolonging things, of driving Megatron further into madness.
It wasn't ever going to end.
There was no escape, nowhere Skyfire could go away from this madness. Worse that he found himself caught up in it, that there was truly no option but us or them. That he'd chosen the Autobots as the lesser of two evils, but both factions were equally to blame.
He couldn't return to Cybertron. He couldn't stay here on Earth like this.
He couldn't do any of it anymore.
Skyfire made a choice. And he'd reached the point where he no longer cared about the consequences.
Opportunity came two days later, almost like clockwork. The Decepticons were starved for energy. They attacked the nearest, best purveyor of said energy. The humans squawked for help. The Autobots responded.
Skyfire was dispatched to carry the first wave of defense forces.
He dropped his cargo and circled the battlefield. Prowl pinged him to return, to pick up the next wave, even as the Aerialbots came screaming in, combining mid-drop to face Menasor as Superion.
Skyfire ignored the pings. And then he shut down the line. He was only interested in one thing.
He scanned the battlefield. Megatron, of course, was leading the charge. Starscream was harrying the ground forces, the rest of his wing next to him. Soundwave hovered at Megatron's side, ever obedient.
Optimus was en route. Megatron, no doubt, waited for him. He let his subordinates do the hard work while he issued challenge after challenge.
“Face me, Prime!” he bellowed. “Before I kill more of your precious humans.”
Skyfire was done.
He considered, he calculated, and he dove.
He transformed mid-air and swept Megatron from the ground before anyone could react. He tossed the warlord to the ground a fair distance away from the battle, aware that he was on a timer.
He landed over Megatron, one pede pinning him in place. Skyfire was larger, much larger, and there was a crunch as his other pede slammed Megatron's cannon-laden arm to the rocky dirt.
Megatron, of all things, laughed. “You?” he asked, optics burning with humor. “What do you think you're doing?”
“Ending the war.” Skyfire drew his own weapon – space exploration was dangerous. He'd always been armed. He just never thought he'd be pointing it at his own species.
Megatron's vents hiccuped from his laughter. “You don't have what it takes to pull the trigger,” he taunted, half-daring Skyfire to do so. “You're an Autobot.”
“That's what everyone keeps forgetting,” Skyfire said as he pointed it at Megatron, and ruthlessly shoved down any and all coding that screamed at him. He had to do this. “I'm not really either of you.”
Hesitation was the Autobots' downfall.
Pride was the weakness of the Decepticons.
Skyfire had neither.
He pulled the trigger. Twice. One to the spark, one to the helm. A Cybertronian could sometimes survive either. Megatron could not survive both.
Smoke rose up from Megatron's chassis. Skyfire waited for the crushing guilt and self-recrimination. He waited to feel sick, for his tanks to lurch, and for him to stare in horror at what he'd done.
It never came. This was necessary.
Skyfire stepped back and turned, surveying the battlefield. No one noticed yet. But they would soon enough.
Now, he only had to find Optimus Prime.
Centuries by his mark. Millennia truthfully, though he wasn't sure if he should count the four million year sleep.
Either way, it was far too long. Skyfire was done with it. Tired of it. He'd sat back and he'd listened to them bicker. He'd watched Optimus, trapped in his morality. He'd observed Megatron, trapped in his insanity.
He'd heard Prowl and Jazz as they reacted, instead of being proactive. As they listened to their leader without realizing the long-term implications. He cringed as Starscream seemed only capable of prolonging things, of driving Megatron further into madness.
It wasn't ever going to end.
There was no escape, nowhere Skyfire could go away from this madness. Worse that he found himself caught up in it, that there was truly no option but us or them. That he'd chosen the Autobots as the lesser of two evils, but both factions were equally to blame.
He couldn't return to Cybertron. He couldn't stay here on Earth like this.
He couldn't do any of it anymore.
Skyfire made a choice. And he'd reached the point where he no longer cared about the consequences.
Opportunity came two days later, almost like clockwork. The Decepticons were starved for energy. They attacked the nearest, best purveyor of said energy. The humans squawked for help. The Autobots responded.
Skyfire was dispatched to carry the first wave of defense forces.
He dropped his cargo and circled the battlefield. Prowl pinged him to return, to pick up the next wave, even as the Aerialbots came screaming in, combining mid-drop to face Menasor as Superion.
Skyfire ignored the pings. And then he shut down the line. He was only interested in one thing.
He scanned the battlefield. Megatron, of course, was leading the charge. Starscream was harrying the ground forces, the rest of his wing next to him. Soundwave hovered at Megatron's side, ever obedient.
Optimus was en route. Megatron, no doubt, waited for him. He let his subordinates do the hard work while he issued challenge after challenge.
“Face me, Prime!” he bellowed. “Before I kill more of your precious humans.”
Skyfire was done.
He considered, he calculated, and he dove.
He transformed mid-air and swept Megatron from the ground before anyone could react. He tossed the warlord to the ground a fair distance away from the battle, aware that he was on a timer.
He landed over Megatron, one pede pinning him in place. Skyfire was larger, much larger, and there was a crunch as his other pede slammed Megatron's cannon-laden arm to the rocky dirt.
Megatron, of all things, laughed. “You?” he asked, optics burning with humor. “What do you think you're doing?”
“Ending the war.” Skyfire drew his own weapon – space exploration was dangerous. He'd always been armed. He just never thought he'd be pointing it at his own species.
Megatron's vents hiccuped from his laughter. “You don't have what it takes to pull the trigger,” he taunted, half-daring Skyfire to do so. “You're an Autobot.”
“That's what everyone keeps forgetting,” Skyfire said as he pointed it at Megatron, and ruthlessly shoved down any and all coding that screamed at him. He had to do this. “I'm not really either of you.”
Hesitation was the Autobots' downfall.
Pride was the weakness of the Decepticons.
Skyfire had neither.
He pulled the trigger. Twice. One to the spark, one to the helm. A Cybertronian could sometimes survive either. Megatron could not survive both.
Smoke rose up from Megatron's chassis. Skyfire waited for the crushing guilt and self-recrimination. He waited to feel sick, for his tanks to lurch, and for him to stare in horror at what he'd done.
It never came. This was necessary.
Skyfire stepped back and turned, surveying the battlefield. No one noticed yet. But they would soon enough.
Now, he only had to find Optimus Prime.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: FlashBat, “Bruce did not like broken things.”
Fandom: Justice League DCAU, related to this but can be read without it. Warnings: angst, but SFW
He was exactly where Bruce thought he would be. And while tracking Wally down was never much of a challenge, it was time consuming. He could go a long distance in a short time.
Bruce climbed the hill and found Wally at the crest of it, sitting on the edge of the world where no one could see him. His arms were folded around his knees, his shoulders hunched. Red and gold were in tatters around him.
Wally's uniform was built to withstand friction, but it couldn't repair itself. Not like his body could. The scent of smoke clung to him and soot had left its mark, even on his hair. Green eyes were hooded and dark.
Bruce knew that look. How often had he stared at his reflection and seen that black gloom staring back?
Not as often here lately, he realized. He had Wally to thank for that. And now here Bruce was, trying to encourage and reassure something broken.
Bruce didn't know how to do that. He did not know how to fix broken things except to throw money at them and toss them in someone else's direction. Someone who was better at it than him. Someone like Dick. Dick should be here. He was Wally's best friend. He was the one good with people. Genuinely good with people.
Bruce... was not.
Leaving Wally here to wallow was simply not an option. Bruce was the one here. He had to be the strong one, to uplift the one who rarely went without a smile.
Bruce sat down next to Wally, the muddy grass instantly soaking his suit. It would have been odd to show up in Central City as Batman. But right now, he wished he had both his costume and his cape.
They were close enough that their shoulders brushed. That Bruce could feel the static potential of the Speed Force nipping at him through his clothes.
Bruce opened and closed his mouth. Sharp platitudes barked at the League were inappropriate here.
Wally was more than them.
He sighed and peered down at Wally's city. Look no further than what's in front of your eyes for inspiration, he reasoned.
“Nice view,” Bruce said.
Wally huffed a laugh. “That's what you're leading with?” His voice was hoarse, not from smoke inhalation, the accelerated healing would have fixed that. But the drying streaks down his face hinted to some time spent in tears.
“It seemed the least offensive,” Bruce admitted.
Wally scrubbed at his face. “I'd ask how you found me but you're you. I'd be more confused if you hadn't.”
“We all have our specialties.”
Wally sighed and looked at him, an odd juxtaposition of soot-streaked skin and torn cowl. “Bruce--”
“You did the best you could do,” he interrupted, careful to keep his voice even. “And I'm aware that's not much comfort considering our fellow teammates and the challenges we face, but it's the truth.”
Bruce looked at Wally at times like this and was painfully reminded how young his lover was. Old enough but also... not.
God, Bruce was old.
“Not even Clark can save everyone, everywhere. He'd learned that harsh lesson a long time ago. We win some, we lose some.”
Bruce reached up, the pad of his thumb wiping a wet tear and succeeding in smearing the soot over the ghost of Wally's freckles. He'd grown out of them, sadly.
“But as Alfred tells me, it's the sum of the battles that matter.”
“Alfred told you that?”
Bruce lifted his shoulders. “I paraphrase. But he's right. If I haunt myself with the lives I couldn't save, their weight will slow me down for the lives I could save.”
Green eyes shifted to the side as though considering. The raw potential around him eased, less biting static and more playful tickling, a normal sensation.
Wally reached up and shoved the remnants of his cowl away from his face. He raked fingers through his hair and released a shuddery exhalation.
“You don't always have to be right, you know,” he said.
The corners of Bruce's lips twitched upward. “Yes, I do.”
A small laugh, genuine this time, escaped Wally. He shook his head and tilted his body to the side. He pressed closer, his head landing on Bruce's shoulder. The wild spikes of his hair tickled Bruce's jaw.
He didn't mind.
“Dick's better at this,” Wally said.
“Yes, I know.”
“But I appreciate the effort.”
Bruce turned toward Wally and pressed a kiss to his ash-scented hair. Something tight around his chest eased. “Alfred made cannolis.” They, like about a hundred other things, were Wally's favorite.
“Can we just sit here for a while?”
He must really be shaken up to not even be hungry. But if this was what he wanted, well, Bruce wasn't going to argue.
“Sure,” he replied. “I am where I need to be.”
Wally leaned a bit more against him, his fingers twisting restless patterns around each other.
He didn't speak but then, he didn't have to.
Bruce climbed the hill and found Wally at the crest of it, sitting on the edge of the world where no one could see him. His arms were folded around his knees, his shoulders hunched. Red and gold were in tatters around him.
Wally's uniform was built to withstand friction, but it couldn't repair itself. Not like his body could. The scent of smoke clung to him and soot had left its mark, even on his hair. Green eyes were hooded and dark.
Bruce knew that look. How often had he stared at his reflection and seen that black gloom staring back?
Not as often here lately, he realized. He had Wally to thank for that. And now here Bruce was, trying to encourage and reassure something broken.
Bruce didn't know how to do that. He did not know how to fix broken things except to throw money at them and toss them in someone else's direction. Someone who was better at it than him. Someone like Dick. Dick should be here. He was Wally's best friend. He was the one good with people. Genuinely good with people.
Bruce... was not.
Leaving Wally here to wallow was simply not an option. Bruce was the one here. He had to be the strong one, to uplift the one who rarely went without a smile.
Bruce sat down next to Wally, the muddy grass instantly soaking his suit. It would have been odd to show up in Central City as Batman. But right now, he wished he had both his costume and his cape.
They were close enough that their shoulders brushed. That Bruce could feel the static potential of the Speed Force nipping at him through his clothes.
Bruce opened and closed his mouth. Sharp platitudes barked at the League were inappropriate here.
Wally was more than them.
He sighed and peered down at Wally's city. Look no further than what's in front of your eyes for inspiration, he reasoned.
“Nice view,” Bruce said.
Wally huffed a laugh. “That's what you're leading with?” His voice was hoarse, not from smoke inhalation, the accelerated healing would have fixed that. But the drying streaks down his face hinted to some time spent in tears.
“It seemed the least offensive,” Bruce admitted.
Wally scrubbed at his face. “I'd ask how you found me but you're you. I'd be more confused if you hadn't.”
“We all have our specialties.”
Wally sighed and looked at him, an odd juxtaposition of soot-streaked skin and torn cowl. “Bruce--”
“You did the best you could do,” he interrupted, careful to keep his voice even. “And I'm aware that's not much comfort considering our fellow teammates and the challenges we face, but it's the truth.”
Bruce looked at Wally at times like this and was painfully reminded how young his lover was. Old enough but also... not.
God, Bruce was old.
“Not even Clark can save everyone, everywhere. He'd learned that harsh lesson a long time ago. We win some, we lose some.”
Bruce reached up, the pad of his thumb wiping a wet tear and succeeding in smearing the soot over the ghost of Wally's freckles. He'd grown out of them, sadly.
“But as Alfred tells me, it's the sum of the battles that matter.”
“Alfred told you that?”
Bruce lifted his shoulders. “I paraphrase. But he's right. If I haunt myself with the lives I couldn't save, their weight will slow me down for the lives I could save.”
Green eyes shifted to the side as though considering. The raw potential around him eased, less biting static and more playful tickling, a normal sensation.
Wally reached up and shoved the remnants of his cowl away from his face. He raked fingers through his hair and released a shuddery exhalation.
“You don't always have to be right, you know,” he said.
The corners of Bruce's lips twitched upward. “Yes, I do.”
A small laugh, genuine this time, escaped Wally. He shook his head and tilted his body to the side. He pressed closer, his head landing on Bruce's shoulder. The wild spikes of his hair tickled Bruce's jaw.
He didn't mind.
“Dick's better at this,” Wally said.
“Yes, I know.”
“But I appreciate the effort.”
Bruce turned toward Wally and pressed a kiss to his ash-scented hair. Something tight around his chest eased. “Alfred made cannolis.” They, like about a hundred other things, were Wally's favorite.
“Can we just sit here for a while?”
He must really be shaken up to not even be hungry. But if this was what he wanted, well, Bruce wasn't going to argue.
“Sure,” he replied. “I am where I need to be.”
Wally leaned a bit more against him, his fingers twisting restless patterns around each other.
He didn't speak but then, he didn't have to.
For fuzipenguin
Prompt: TFP ArceexWheeljack, “let's see what we can make go boom"
Fandom: Transformers Prime, part of this, which I now anticipate becoming a series. Contains mentions of ArceexWheeljackxBulkhead. Warnings: NSFW, sticky, dom/sub, overload delay, sex toys, sounding, gagging
Eight hours and no ping. Arcee was impressed.
She rolled back into base, Bumblebee beside her, glad that it was still early enough the kids were in school. She had business to take care of and didn't need a snoopy Miko poking around and interrupting.
Arcee was far from embarrassed, but Ratchet got more than a little flustered when Miko started asking questions. For his part, Jack didn't want to know. He was perfectly happy with his ignorance. He'd said as much.
“Up for a little sparring?” Bumblebee beeped as they shifted to root mode. He danced in place, throwing a few playful jabs into the air.
Arcee grinned. “Not this time, Bee. Got a little project that needs my attention first.”
Bee's optics brightened. “Say no more,” he bleeped, gave Arcee a thumbs up and wandered away, probably to bug Ratchet. It was kind of a game, now, to see who could get Ratchet to holler first.
It was the only way the doc would let off some steam.
Amused, Arcee slipped back into the tiny corner of the bunker they'd turned into semi-private quarters. There wasn't much room here. It was cramped and uncomfortable and they shared space, but it was better than Jack's garage in winter time. Besides, Arcee was small. She could fit anywhere.
Anticipation revved her engine and Arcee keyed open the door to her tiny room and stepped inside, surveying her domain.
“Right where I left you,” she announced as she moved into the room and the door slid shut behind her. She planted her hands on her hips. “You're made of sterner stuff than I thought.”
A muffled whine was her answer. Kind of hard to vocalize properly with a false spike down your intake and locked in place with a thick strap.
Arcee's grin widened as she approached her pet.
Wheeljack was kneeling on the floor, the berth far too small for his frame. She'd shackled his wrists to the berth above his helm, and turned an old pipe into a makeshift spreader bar, keeping his pedes nice and spread. There was a growing puddle of lubricant beneath him and the air was tangy with the scent of it.
He was shaking, she noticed. Little spikes of charge zapped out from beneath his armor. If she listened, she could just barely hear the whirr of the vibrator as it happily buzzed away within Wheeljack's valve, spinning and pulsing. The inhibitor attached beneath his spike, however, prevented all overloads.
He'd been like this since she'd left for shift. She'd said, “ping me if it's too much. I'll have Bulkhead come give you a hand.”
Eight hours and not a single ping.
Arcee snagged a backless stool and dragged it close. She sat down right in front of Wheeljack, close enough to touch. The thick need in his field smacked into her and she shivered.
“Need some relief?” she asked, tipping her helm to the side.
She watched oral lubricant slide out of the corners of his mouth. His jaw and chin and chestplate glistened with it.
Wheeljack's intake bobbed. His spike dripped to the floor, squeezing out more lubricant from around the lightly vibrating sound she'd left in it. There was an inhibitor in the base of it, too. Thank you Ratchet, who had stammered and scowled and rolled his optics, but gave her the thing anyway.
“If you're going to engage in questionable activities, I might as well make sure you do it safely,” he'd said.
And as a courtesy, Arcee'd magnetized a monitor to Wheeljack's frame, so that Ratchet could keep an optic on his vitals. Eight hours later and no ping from Ratchet either.
“You're such a good toy,” Arcee purred and she leaned forward, dragging one finger up the length of his spike.
Wheeljack's engine roared. He trembled, spinal strut arching. His spike bobbed.
“I'm feeling generous right now,” Arcee continued, the tip of her finger teasing the capped head of Wheeljack's spike. “So I'll give you a choice. Should I take out the vibrator or the sound?”
The false spike in his mouth would remain. She rather liked him reduced to moans and grunts and desperate whimpers. And it would leave his mouth nice and prepped for Bulkhead later anyway.
“Which will it be?” Arcee asked as she teased him with her fingers. “Flick your headlights for your spike. Flash your high beams for your valve.”
She waited and licked her lips when his high beams flashed at her. She should have guessed.
“You're so predictable.”
Arcee dropped to her knees and notched herself between Wheeljack's thighs. A quick flick of her fingers and a twist of her wrist unsnapped the vibrating plug, giving her room to slide her fingers up in beside it.
Wheeljack's helm tossed back. His engine raced. Heat poured into the air.
“Desperate, are we?”
His valve clenched on her fingers, liberally drooling lubricant. It was all the answer she needed.
Arcee removed the inhibitor with her free hand and set it beside her. The vibrator was removed and dropped to the floor. She grabbed his hips, scooted closer, and popped her panel. Her spike extended immediately, already glossy with lubricant. Just the sight of him had left her revved.
The head of her spike nudged at his valve and glided against the copious amounts of lubricant.
“Now,” she said, locking optics with him. “Be a good pet and don't overload until I get mine. And then you'll get your reward.”
A frustrated noise squeaked out of his vocalizer. His optics blazed as though calling her a rather rude name.
“Yes," she agreed. “I suppose I am.” Her hips snapped forward, burying her spike to the hilt in his clenching valve.
He overloaded on the spot, convulsing around her spike in delicious ripples. Arcee held herself within him, savoring the rhythmic clench. He ex-vented, noisily and full of wet heat, and then sagged in his bindings, engine racing.
Arcee shook her helm and flicked her fingers over his spike. “Bad pet,” she chastised. She circled her hips, stirring her spike through the pool of lubricant and his overly sensitized nodes. “Now I'll have to punish you.”
His valve clutched weakly at her. He couldn't hide the excitement in his field. So misbehaved. Sometimes, Arcee swore he did it on purpose. And Bulkhead agreed with her.
Arcee worked her hips in endless circles, not thrusting, but stirring his arousal. She retrieved the inhibitor and snapped it back into place.
“Or maybe I'll let Bulkhead do it instead,” Arcee said, dragging her fingers up his spike as she let the inhibitor do its work. Wheeljack clenched around her, already writhing with restless need.
“Yes,” she purred, sliding into him a bit faster now. “I think I'll do just that.”
She would get as many overloads as her frame would support. And then she'd let Bulkhead do his thing.
Arcee grabbed Wheeljack's hips once more and pulled him onto her spike, fragging him a little faster.
“You have four more hours until your next overload,” she said. “So I hope that one was worth it.”
Wheeljack moaned behind his gag. There was still no ping.
Arcee smirked.
She rolled back into base, Bumblebee beside her, glad that it was still early enough the kids were in school. She had business to take care of and didn't need a snoopy Miko poking around and interrupting.
Arcee was far from embarrassed, but Ratchet got more than a little flustered when Miko started asking questions. For his part, Jack didn't want to know. He was perfectly happy with his ignorance. He'd said as much.
“Up for a little sparring?” Bumblebee beeped as they shifted to root mode. He danced in place, throwing a few playful jabs into the air.
Arcee grinned. “Not this time, Bee. Got a little project that needs my attention first.”
Bee's optics brightened. “Say no more,” he bleeped, gave Arcee a thumbs up and wandered away, probably to bug Ratchet. It was kind of a game, now, to see who could get Ratchet to holler first.
It was the only way the doc would let off some steam.
Amused, Arcee slipped back into the tiny corner of the bunker they'd turned into semi-private quarters. There wasn't much room here. It was cramped and uncomfortable and they shared space, but it was better than Jack's garage in winter time. Besides, Arcee was small. She could fit anywhere.
Anticipation revved her engine and Arcee keyed open the door to her tiny room and stepped inside, surveying her domain.
“Right where I left you,” she announced as she moved into the room and the door slid shut behind her. She planted her hands on her hips. “You're made of sterner stuff than I thought.”
A muffled whine was her answer. Kind of hard to vocalize properly with a false spike down your intake and locked in place with a thick strap.
Arcee's grin widened as she approached her pet.
Wheeljack was kneeling on the floor, the berth far too small for his frame. She'd shackled his wrists to the berth above his helm, and turned an old pipe into a makeshift spreader bar, keeping his pedes nice and spread. There was a growing puddle of lubricant beneath him and the air was tangy with the scent of it.
He was shaking, she noticed. Little spikes of charge zapped out from beneath his armor. If she listened, she could just barely hear the whirr of the vibrator as it happily buzzed away within Wheeljack's valve, spinning and pulsing. The inhibitor attached beneath his spike, however, prevented all overloads.
He'd been like this since she'd left for shift. She'd said, “ping me if it's too much. I'll have Bulkhead come give you a hand.”
Eight hours and not a single ping.
Arcee snagged a backless stool and dragged it close. She sat down right in front of Wheeljack, close enough to touch. The thick need in his field smacked into her and she shivered.
“Need some relief?” she asked, tipping her helm to the side.
She watched oral lubricant slide out of the corners of his mouth. His jaw and chin and chestplate glistened with it.
Wheeljack's intake bobbed. His spike dripped to the floor, squeezing out more lubricant from around the lightly vibrating sound she'd left in it. There was an inhibitor in the base of it, too. Thank you Ratchet, who had stammered and scowled and rolled his optics, but gave her the thing anyway.
“If you're going to engage in questionable activities, I might as well make sure you do it safely,” he'd said.
And as a courtesy, Arcee'd magnetized a monitor to Wheeljack's frame, so that Ratchet could keep an optic on his vitals. Eight hours later and no ping from Ratchet either.
“You're such a good toy,” Arcee purred and she leaned forward, dragging one finger up the length of his spike.
Wheeljack's engine roared. He trembled, spinal strut arching. His spike bobbed.
“I'm feeling generous right now,” Arcee continued, the tip of her finger teasing the capped head of Wheeljack's spike. “So I'll give you a choice. Should I take out the vibrator or the sound?”
The false spike in his mouth would remain. She rather liked him reduced to moans and grunts and desperate whimpers. And it would leave his mouth nice and prepped for Bulkhead later anyway.
“Which will it be?” Arcee asked as she teased him with her fingers. “Flick your headlights for your spike. Flash your high beams for your valve.”
She waited and licked her lips when his high beams flashed at her. She should have guessed.
“You're so predictable.”
Arcee dropped to her knees and notched herself between Wheeljack's thighs. A quick flick of her fingers and a twist of her wrist unsnapped the vibrating plug, giving her room to slide her fingers up in beside it.
Wheeljack's helm tossed back. His engine raced. Heat poured into the air.
“Desperate, are we?”
His valve clenched on her fingers, liberally drooling lubricant. It was all the answer she needed.
Arcee removed the inhibitor with her free hand and set it beside her. The vibrator was removed and dropped to the floor. She grabbed his hips, scooted closer, and popped her panel. Her spike extended immediately, already glossy with lubricant. Just the sight of him had left her revved.
The head of her spike nudged at his valve and glided against the copious amounts of lubricant.
“Now,” she said, locking optics with him. “Be a good pet and don't overload until I get mine. And then you'll get your reward.”
A frustrated noise squeaked out of his vocalizer. His optics blazed as though calling her a rather rude name.
“Yes," she agreed. “I suppose I am.” Her hips snapped forward, burying her spike to the hilt in his clenching valve.
He overloaded on the spot, convulsing around her spike in delicious ripples. Arcee held herself within him, savoring the rhythmic clench. He ex-vented, noisily and full of wet heat, and then sagged in his bindings, engine racing.
Arcee shook her helm and flicked her fingers over his spike. “Bad pet,” she chastised. She circled her hips, stirring her spike through the pool of lubricant and his overly sensitized nodes. “Now I'll have to punish you.”
His valve clutched weakly at her. He couldn't hide the excitement in his field. So misbehaved. Sometimes, Arcee swore he did it on purpose. And Bulkhead agreed with her.
Arcee worked her hips in endless circles, not thrusting, but stirring his arousal. She retrieved the inhibitor and snapped it back into place.
“Or maybe I'll let Bulkhead do it instead,” Arcee said, dragging her fingers up his spike as she let the inhibitor do its work. Wheeljack clenched around her, already writhing with restless need.
“Yes,” she purred, sliding into him a bit faster now. “I think I'll do just that.”
She would get as many overloads as her frame would support. And then she'd let Bulkhead do his thing.
Arcee grabbed Wheeljack's hips once more and pulled him onto her spike, fragging him a little faster.
“You have four more hours until your next overload,” she said. “So I hope that one was worth it.”
Wheeljack moaned behind his gag. There was still no ping.
Arcee smirked.
a/n: A couple of these I may just pull out, expand a little, and repost. One never quite knows. So if you didn't see yours, it's either in the process of being written (I'm looking at you stubborn piece of Art of Self-Destruction) or it's going to be posted separately. :)
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.