[IDW] All the Queen's Treasure 09
Mar. 2nd, 2020 06:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: All the Queen’s Treasure
Continuity: IDW, Alternate Canon
Characters: Sunstreaker, Ironhide, Bob the Insecticon, Hardshell, Sharpshot, Kickback, Original Insecticon Character(s)
Pairings: Hardshell/Sunstreaker, Insecticon(s)/Sunstreaker, Hardshell/Sunstreaker/Sharpshot
Rating: M
Enticements: Consensual Body Modification, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Non-Graphic Oviposition, Off-screen Egg Laying, Knotting
Description: After Sideswipe, Sunstreaker returns to Cybertron, lost and alone, until Bob leads him on a wild chase into the wildlands, to a nest beneath the surface of the planet, and a place Sunstreaker might call home.
Part Nine
Sunstreaker woke and a scream caught in his intake.
His armor was on fire, his sensornet burned, and he swore his fluids boiled in his lines. Most of the heat centered on his groin, but his entire frame was a thing of molten agony.
Everything hurt. His struts. His joints. His limbs.
His tank clenched with hunger. He ripped the berthsheets to threads -- full talons now rather than the half-blunt nubs they'd been before. His spike ached, fully pressurized, beading at the tip, and Sunstreaker spread his legs without thinking, his valve swollen and dripping and hungry.
"What... the frag?" he gasped, peeling his optical shutters up, the room around him a hazy smear of color and shapes.
"You're entering the final stage."
Sunstreaker oriented toward the voice, and his sense of awareness identified Kickback beside him, reaching for him. He cupped Sunstreaker's head, held an energon cube to his lips. "Drink."
He obeyed, relief coursing through his system as the cool energon slid over his hot glossa. He felt parched, and starving. He drained the energon dry, and protested when Kickback pulled it away.
"More will only make you ill," Kickback said, and he turned Sunstreaker's face toward him, an odd gentleness in the way he touched Sunstreaker. "He's ascending even quicker than I anticipated."
"Give him to me." Hardshell's voice peeked through the confusion.
Sunstreaker tried to turn, but he felt weak. Pliant. All save for the burning need in his groin, between his legs, sprouting from his pelvis. "H-Hardshell."
"I'm here, my queen." A hand on his thigh, and Sunstreaker obediently parted his legs, eager for a touch on his throbbing valve. "Sharpshot, will you stay?"
"I will remain. Remain for my queen."
"Kickback?"
"I will not participate, but I will monitor."
Sunstreaker whimpered. Why weren't they touching him? He reached for someone, trying to draw them closer, and hands circled around his wrists, holding them in place. Their touch was a simultaneous relief and a torment. The need burned hotter. The smears of color and shape blurred further. Everything was dizzy and loud and hot, like being overcharged on the strongest high grade.
Sunstreaker writhed, the smell of his arousal thick on the air. The berth beneath his aft was soaked with lubricant. His valve ached, and his spike throbbed, and it hurt, couldn't they see it hurt?
It was Hardshell who had his wrists. It was Sharpshot who touched his thighs. Neither of them offered him relief.
Sunstreaker growled. "Take me!"
"Yes, my queen," Sharpshot purred, and he crawled up Sunstreaker's frame, straddling his hips, leaning down for a nuzzle.
Sunstreaker's spike rubbed along the inside of his thighs, and Sunstreaker shuddered, his spikehead leaving a streak of fluid behind. Sharpshot gripped him, and then Sunstreaker's world view shifted, leaving him spinning dizzily, gasping to find his equilibrium.
He looked down at Sharpshot, his hips nestled between Sharpshot's thighs. Sharpshot's hands scrubbed along his frame.
"I am yours, yours to have," Sharpshot said as he rolled upward, and his valve caught Sunstreaker's spike.
Sunstreaker thrust blindly, desperately, and moaned when he found Sharpshot's valve and buried himself on the second push. Pleasure zapped up his spinal strut, relief chasing its heels. He pressed his forehead to Sharpshot’s clavicular strut, grinding deep as Sharpshot shivered beneath him, his valve impossibly hot, impossibly wet, cycling to drag him deeper.
It felt impossibly good. It was utter relief. There was a part of Sunstreaker made of rationality, but it dissolved under the influence of instinct.
Take. Please. Claim.
He rutted into Sharpshot like an organic beast, and Sharpshot writhed beneath him, hands roaming over Sunstreaker’s armor, keening loudly. His valve rippled and clenched around Sunstreaker’s spike as if trying to pull him deeper.
Then heat pressed against his back, draped across him, bore him down against Sharpshot. He knew it was Hardshell without looking, knew the grip of Hardshell’s hands on his hips, the press of Hardshell’s spike against his inner thighs.
“One last time, my queen,” Hardshell rumbled, and his voice was dark and thick with promise, heavy with lust.
Sunstreaker moaned. “Do it,” he demanded, and his vocals echoed with command, with consent, with approval, with everything he needed it to be in order for Hardshell to slide into him, fill him to the brim.
His world swirled with color. Pleasure. Sound. Sensation.
Sharpshot beneath him. Hardshell above him. Spike swelling in his valve, his own grinding into Sharpshot’s, tasting the oddly placed sensor nodes.
The heat tried to swallow him. Rather than fight it, Sunstreaker gave into it. The inferno blazed through his frame, swept through his sensor net, through his lines. It crackled along his struts and took up residence in his spark, which pulsed a new rhythm to him, an unfamiliar one. Deep, throbbing beats. A new song.
Mine.
Yours.
Ours.
They weren’t spoken aloud, but Sunstreaker heard them nonetheless. Invisible chains fell away. The last barrier shattered.
It was pain, but it wasn’t.
Sunstreaker shattered, and felt himself fracture into pieces, somewhere in the gasping, the moaning, the clatter of armor, the slick glide of lubricant and interface arrays. The pain picked him up, swallowed him whole, battered him on a shore, passed him through fire.
It threw him out on the other side, threw him into ecstasy, into screaming pleasure. He slammed into his frame, fully changed, and it felt like his, no longer an awkward in-between. He was taller, heavier, stronger.
All around him, voices rose up. Not audibly. Not aloud. But he heard them. Felt them. In his spark. As if the entire Hive, as one, had felt his ascension.
Yes. His ascension.
He was Sunstreaker alone no longer.
He was More.
He was Queen.
***
Continuity: IDW, Alternate Canon
Characters: Sunstreaker, Ironhide, Bob the Insecticon, Hardshell, Sharpshot, Kickback, Original Insecticon Character(s)
Pairings: Hardshell/Sunstreaker, Insecticon(s)/Sunstreaker, Hardshell/Sunstreaker/Sharpshot
Rating: M
Enticements: Consensual Body Modification, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Non-Graphic Oviposition, Off-screen Egg Laying, Knotting
Description: After Sideswipe, Sunstreaker returns to Cybertron, lost and alone, until Bob leads him on a wild chase into the wildlands, to a nest beneath the surface of the planet, and a place Sunstreaker might call home.
Sunstreaker woke and a scream caught in his intake.
His armor was on fire, his sensornet burned, and he swore his fluids boiled in his lines. Most of the heat centered on his groin, but his entire frame was a thing of molten agony.
Everything hurt. His struts. His joints. His limbs.
His tank clenched with hunger. He ripped the berthsheets to threads -- full talons now rather than the half-blunt nubs they'd been before. His spike ached, fully pressurized, beading at the tip, and Sunstreaker spread his legs without thinking, his valve swollen and dripping and hungry.
"What... the frag?" he gasped, peeling his optical shutters up, the room around him a hazy smear of color and shapes.
"You're entering the final stage."
Sunstreaker oriented toward the voice, and his sense of awareness identified Kickback beside him, reaching for him. He cupped Sunstreaker's head, held an energon cube to his lips. "Drink."
He obeyed, relief coursing through his system as the cool energon slid over his hot glossa. He felt parched, and starving. He drained the energon dry, and protested when Kickback pulled it away.
"More will only make you ill," Kickback said, and he turned Sunstreaker's face toward him, an odd gentleness in the way he touched Sunstreaker. "He's ascending even quicker than I anticipated."
"Give him to me." Hardshell's voice peeked through the confusion.
Sunstreaker tried to turn, but he felt weak. Pliant. All save for the burning need in his groin, between his legs, sprouting from his pelvis. "H-Hardshell."
"I'm here, my queen." A hand on his thigh, and Sunstreaker obediently parted his legs, eager for a touch on his throbbing valve. "Sharpshot, will you stay?"
"I will remain. Remain for my queen."
"Kickback?"
"I will not participate, but I will monitor."
Sunstreaker whimpered. Why weren't they touching him? He reached for someone, trying to draw them closer, and hands circled around his wrists, holding them in place. Their touch was a simultaneous relief and a torment. The need burned hotter. The smears of color and shape blurred further. Everything was dizzy and loud and hot, like being overcharged on the strongest high grade.
Sunstreaker writhed, the smell of his arousal thick on the air. The berth beneath his aft was soaked with lubricant. His valve ached, and his spike throbbed, and it hurt, couldn't they see it hurt?
It was Hardshell who had his wrists. It was Sharpshot who touched his thighs. Neither of them offered him relief.
Sunstreaker growled. "Take me!"
"Yes, my queen," Sharpshot purred, and he crawled up Sunstreaker's frame, straddling his hips, leaning down for a nuzzle.
Sunstreaker's spike rubbed along the inside of his thighs, and Sunstreaker shuddered, his spikehead leaving a streak of fluid behind. Sharpshot gripped him, and then Sunstreaker's world view shifted, leaving him spinning dizzily, gasping to find his equilibrium.
He looked down at Sharpshot, his hips nestled between Sharpshot's thighs. Sharpshot's hands scrubbed along his frame.
"I am yours, yours to have," Sharpshot said as he rolled upward, and his valve caught Sunstreaker's spike.
Sunstreaker thrust blindly, desperately, and moaned when he found Sharpshot's valve and buried himself on the second push. Pleasure zapped up his spinal strut, relief chasing its heels. He pressed his forehead to Sharpshot’s clavicular strut, grinding deep as Sharpshot shivered beneath him, his valve impossibly hot, impossibly wet, cycling to drag him deeper.
It felt impossibly good. It was utter relief. There was a part of Sunstreaker made of rationality, but it dissolved under the influence of instinct.
Take. Please. Claim.
He rutted into Sharpshot like an organic beast, and Sharpshot writhed beneath him, hands roaming over Sunstreaker’s armor, keening loudly. His valve rippled and clenched around Sunstreaker’s spike as if trying to pull him deeper.
Then heat pressed against his back, draped across him, bore him down against Sharpshot. He knew it was Hardshell without looking, knew the grip of Hardshell’s hands on his hips, the press of Hardshell’s spike against his inner thighs.
“One last time, my queen,” Hardshell rumbled, and his voice was dark and thick with promise, heavy with lust.
Sunstreaker moaned. “Do it,” he demanded, and his vocals echoed with command, with consent, with approval, with everything he needed it to be in order for Hardshell to slide into him, fill him to the brim.
His world swirled with color. Pleasure. Sound. Sensation.
Sharpshot beneath him. Hardshell above him. Spike swelling in his valve, his own grinding into Sharpshot’s, tasting the oddly placed sensor nodes.
The heat tried to swallow him. Rather than fight it, Sunstreaker gave into it. The inferno blazed through his frame, swept through his sensor net, through his lines. It crackled along his struts and took up residence in his spark, which pulsed a new rhythm to him, an unfamiliar one. Deep, throbbing beats. A new song.
Mine.
Yours.
Ours.
They weren’t spoken aloud, but Sunstreaker heard them nonetheless. Invisible chains fell away. The last barrier shattered.
It was pain, but it wasn’t.
Sunstreaker shattered, and felt himself fracture into pieces, somewhere in the gasping, the moaning, the clatter of armor, the slick glide of lubricant and interface arrays. The pain picked him up, swallowed him whole, battered him on a shore, passed him through fire.
It threw him out on the other side, threw him into ecstasy, into screaming pleasure. He slammed into his frame, fully changed, and it felt like his, no longer an awkward in-between. He was taller, heavier, stronger.
All around him, voices rose up. Not audibly. Not aloud. But he heard them. Felt them. In his spark. As if the entire Hive, as one, had felt his ascension.
Yes. His ascension.
He was Sunstreaker alone no longer.
He was More.
He was Queen.
