Hate to Love

By: Landray Depth Charge (aka Feesh)

He wondered.

The behemoth sat in the infinite darkness, idle in body but not in mind. Recent events in his life had made the gargantuan mech start to wonder about his own motives, his own attractions, and particularly in the case of the latter, his attraction to one mechanoid in particular.

Was it the age-old Earth saying 'safety in numbers' that had brought the pair together? Or was it something entirely different?

Barricade had passed out hours ago, succumbing to stasis from a combination of energy deprivation and general exhaustion. This thought process brought a wry, hidden grin to the hulking mech's sharp facial plating; endurance: it was his gift, and it was his curse. Whether on the battlefield or in personal quarters with someone he could generally outlast almost anyone…though…Barricade did give him a run for his money once the larger Transformer got him going.

The police interceptor in question was out like a light on the dusty, dingy cement floor, framed and illuminated by the square of blue moonlight that had slowly begun to move over his body several cycles ago. The leviathan gazed down at his lover with a sense of longing and affection, though the latter felt strange to him. He'd never before cared about anyone on any level unless he himself had something out of it to gain. But since becoming stranded with Barricade, something had changed. Unsure was the monstrous mech if his feelings were born of a natural desire to stay alive, and thusly, within numbers of his own kind, or whether things would have turned this way regardless of circumstance.

They traveled separately when they did but always joined up at the same place every night. It was considerably less complicated for the smaller, more easily overlooked police cruiser to go out during the day (or night) and just drive, but he, the larger of the two companions, hadn't such a luxury. If and when he chose to leave their abandoned safe haven, he had to remain out of sight entirely. Radar was no problem; the big mech merely masked his energy signature, something that for him was as easy as breathing to the carbon-based beings infesting this wet, dirty dust ball.

Barricade's involvement in this twisted relationship, at first, had been begrudgingly forced at best. The Ford Mustang had a deep-seated loathing for his larger companion that stemmed from events stretching back to when they both were initially appointed and stationed on the great flagship, the Nemesis. Back then, the best the larger mech had gotten from the smaller officer had been non-consensual bouts of pleasure that Barricade resisted wildly. The Saleen S281 had been constantly on alert aboard Megatron's warship, on his toes and ready for action at all times. This wasn't just due to one officers attacking him, not so; the musing mech knew that most of the bigger, stronger Decepticons on the ship had found it a hobby to try and kick the smaller mech around. Barricade always bit and shouted back, he never cowered and was just as in-your-face as they were despite being half their size, and that was when the third-of-command had taken notice of him.

His own attacks began, but without the intent to harm. Instead, he pinned the smaller Decepticon down in numerous ways (hands, bodyweight, chains, and other such mannerisms of restraint) and forced him to overload again and again. He made Barricade enjoy what he did and the now police interceptor had loved to hate it.

Now, Barricade wasn't so begrudging.

One large hand reached out, the tips of gargantuan fingers trailing infinitesimal patterns along the edges and gaps that separated plating from innards, armor from sensitive vitals. It was easy to see what made the Ford Mustang so utterly attractive despite his size; it hadn't anything to with anything physical. It was all in mind and personality. Barricade possessed the capacity to be as terrifyingly dominant and headstrong as any other thirty-foot Decepticon he knew. He threw his miniscule weight around and hollered and fought dirty and was underhanded and slag it all, he didn't take flack from anyone. The behemoth shivered, red optics tinted with a touch of amber trailing down his lovers arms, settling on the glinting silver talons that were Barricade's fingers. Those same hands, slightly different in other bodies but still wholly the same, had torn apart Autobots far larger than himself, and the thinking mech had seen this phenomenon countless times.

Those same hands had clawed and scraped and punctured his armor when Barricade had felt less than welcoming to his advances.

Those same deliciously taloned fingers, long and supple, razorsharp, trailing patterns of delight along his shoulders and sides as their bodies ground together with vicious pleasure –

Blackout quivered, rotor blades twitching behind him. His large, wide hand had paused, hovering feet over the police interceptor's hip as the shudder of electrical energy slithered across his sensory network. Shaking just slightly, the Sikorsky MH-53 helicopter closed his monstrous fist, only to open it yet again to let those wide, arch-tipped fingers trail from hip to chest, causing a slight shift in Barricade's position. Blackout leaned his helm back against his rotormount, blazing optics still locked on the silently recharging form of his far smaller, far sleeker companion. Cocaine. Heroine. Adrenaline. Inebriating liquids. Murder. All were objects of addiction among numerous different species, both organic and not. Blackout's addiction was pleasure. His drive to touch Barricade, to make him writhe in mind numbing ecstasy never lessened no matter how often they got off on one another. Even now, subconsciously, Blackout found himself reaching for his lover's pleasure zones without a thought, his wandering hand snaking down between the Saleen's thighs where he knew a cluster of dermosensors lay, a particular set that drove the Ford out of control.

Chrome claws tensed, the tips scraping gouges into the cement. The Sikorsky continued his ministrations, watching as the 550 horsepower muscle car arched his back and reached out, fingers curling into claws in a cat-like stretch before Barricade once again attempted relaxation. Unfortunately, his fellow survivor had other ideas.

Blackout's movement, for such a massive mech, was surprisingly swift and lacking viciousness. It only took one touch to force his lover onto his back, obviously without resistence, so that he may hover on his hands and knees above him. The S281 blinked out of stasis, glaring blearily up at the towering, all-encompassing mass that was Blackout.

"This had better be life-threatening," came the Ford's half-asleep growl.

One two-fingered hand wandered down south again. "Not particularly."

"Then get off," Barricade grunted, feeling those wide digits in the crux of his limbs, digging, searching.. "And leave me be."

"Aww," Blackout pouted maliciously, making a trilling noise of disapproval which slowly turned into a purr. "That's no fun."

"It didn't occur to you that we had plenty of fun three cycles ago?"

Blackout lowered his upper body, holding his weight on one elbow. With his face only feet above Barricades, he hissed just softly, "I can never get enough of you."

But the Saleen only smirked, despite the blooms of pleasure erupting from his companion's touches. "Well, now isn't that just convenient? If I was Bonecrusher or Devastator or Starscream, you'd not be able to get enough of them either." He shifted minutely. "You're addicted to pleasure and I'm your fix. Get off of it and leave me be, Blackout."

The MH-53 Pave Low studied his lover, watching as Barricade's body relaxed with a shudder when his fingers ceased their rubbing. "Negative," the deep bass voice rumbled. "You are my addiction."