The dolphin's harem gets in trouble and starts some system tests. The Insecticons play with their food.
Title: Candy From Strangers, Pt. 11
Warning: Dolphin sex and slavery, genderswap?, stick sticky sex, food porn
Rating: R?
Continuity: G1
Characters: Combaticons, Skywarp, Thundercracker, Insecticons
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): A challenge, and a kinkmeme request.
[* * * * *]
"Sticky sex" (only I would make that a pun)
[* * * * *]
The second island they settled on was larger, but not by much. It'd probably been about the same size as the first scrubby sandbar Blast Off had found, but they'd never know because Brawl had reduced that to scattered sand in a fit of anger. The other Combaticons had dully watched from their patch of beach as the rest of the island got dug up and pitched in every direction. They hadn't objected.
They should have. It turned out that explosions, smoke, and chunks of plantlife being hurled into the ocean scared dolphins. Who knew, right? Well, they knew now, but that wasn't terribly helpful. All that did was grind in how stupid they'd been not to anticipate their owner's probable reaction to a giant metal alien throwing a temper tantrum.
They'd disrupted their lord and master's normal feeding and play schedule. The consequences of realizing that had not been pleasant. They'd driven away their master. Only bad slaves didn't think of their owner's reactions first and foremost, and oh, had they been bad slaves.
The slave programming wouldn't let them think of their fleshy overlord as a dumb animal motivated by fear, but it was quite capable of searing into their cringing minds that he was shy. He had an aversion to loud, unsettling noises. They should have known better. They did known better. They'd caused their master discomfort and they'd been abandoned as a result, rude, unworthy, bad slaves that they were.
Yeah, the slave programming went to town on the Combaticons over that.
After a few hours of howling in self-inflicted, internal pain, they'd been exhausted. The beach had been grooved by the clawing of their hands. There'd been impressions of their faces pressed deep in the sand. Vortex had curled up into a whimpering ball. Brawl kept randomly blurting half-formed apologies to thin air, then cringing under a fresh surge of pain as the programming decided the tank wasn't remorseful enough. Onslaught had remained on his hands and knees, shuddering silently, possibly the most withdrawn of any of them throughout the waves of sensor network triggers. Blast Off had stoically knelt, forehelm in the sand and vocalizer muted as he suffered. Swindle had miserably raised the idea of purchasing tow lines, jumper cables, and industrial magnets for the purposes of torture. The Combaticons had given a collective flinch when the slave programming barely hitched before approving the idea. Apparently self-punishment wasn't sufficient for such bad slaves.
By the fourth hour, Blast Off's total surrender before the programming had earned him some respite. He'd assumed the programming recognized his submission, but no. No, not quite. The slave programming had spared him further punishment in order to slot him into a role he'd never wanted: leader.
It'd been unsettling to discover that he was in charge, especially when that discovery came via Brawl hanging from his fist weakly apologizing. Not apologizing to a military leader - Onslaught had been standing to one side looking helpless - but to the mech steadily taking over leadership of the unit. The programming was gradually shifting their ranking of authority from military hierarchy over to whom their master favored. Blast Off was first and favorite. The head of the harem, as it were.
They hadn't even known that their gestalt chain of command had changed until, panicking, they found themselves turning to him for directions that day.
And Blast Off hadn't realized what was happening until he'd already started disciplining Brawl. The shuttle had jolted as it hit him what exactly he was doing...and how Brawl was just hanging there taking it as if he had every right to punish the mech. Which he did, now. According to the programming that'd overwritten anything they believed to the contrary. Mere military rank meant nothing.
The good news was that assuming the role of head slave meant he could take over the small duties classified as too petty to bother their owner with. Not that the programming didn't pressure him to defer at every moment to his master's judgment, but the shuttle was digging for whatever good news he could find. He'd never wanted to be in charge of a harem, but at least the head slave was delegated responsibility for ensuring everyone stayed in working order. That included, thank Primus (and their master, always their master), keeping them fueled.
The bad news was that even Onslaught now had to ask - beg, really, because they were bad slaves and didn't deserve the dignity of asking - permission to refuel. Blast Off had always hated being a subordinate, but he hated even more being the most powerful of powerless slaves. He didn't want to listen to Onslaught beg, not like this, but the programming had strict rules that he had to abide by, and one of those was that slaves must be humble before their owner. Humble, and grateful, meaning that Blast Off had to judge the sincerity of the thanks offered in return for every cube he doled out on behalf of their absent owner.
He hated his life.
But being in charge had allowed him to pick up the whole unit and relocate on his own initiative. That'd almost made his horrible promotion worth it.
It'd taken Vortex 26 hours' frantic searching from the air to find the correct dolphin pod. Blast Off spent that time systematically doling out punishment to the other Combaticons, who meekly accepted the torture without protest. Onslaught seethed, Swindle babbled nervously, and Brawl just took it and whimpered for more. Once they moved, it took Brawl another 12 hours to stop groveling in the water, uselessly begging forgiveness from an animal that couldn't understand anything he said. Blast Off had fought the programming but conceded that some further form of penance had to be assigned to the slave who'd stepped out of line. Whimpering on his knees in the water was better than being punished by his own sensor network or screaming under Blast Off's hands.
Plus, keeping Brawl down via orders meant there wasn't a repeat of the temper tantrum that'd started all this. If nothing else, staying still in the water appealed to the dolphin pod's curiosity. Once the mammals ventured close enough, Blast Off managed to coax their master into playing, and that made the Combaticons practically giddy. Sheer sobbing relief when the pain finally stopped had Swindle in a limp pile on the beach reciting praises unto their lord and master.
Onslaught had stayed to one side while Vortex reported every single movement of their new owner in real-time to Blast Off. He'd quietly submitted to punishment, as the slave programming demanded. He'd accepted the shuttle's orders when relocating. That didn't mean he was happy about any of it.
Blast Off hadn't pushed him. The mech seemed slightly dazed by everything that was happening, and how the programming was changing him to accept it without question. They were all having some trouble sorting out what they felt naturally versus what the programming imposed on their coding. Turning to Blast Off for orders felt right, but once they stopped to think about it, they knew better.
Bewilderment gave way to bitter surrender as the new order sank in. Onslaught had lost his freedom and his command in one fell swoop. "So this is how it is, now," he said while the shuttle cupped massive hands around the small, rubbery form of their lord and master. "You're in charge."
Blast Off kept his visor down, but there was a strange swell of authority in the back of his mind. It was foreign and tasted wrong in a way only a formerly free mech would recognize. "Yes."
Onslaught's bitterness was the kind that soaked in and dried into defeat. It wasn't the sort of defeat that could be fought. Blast Off would know; he'd done his share of fighting before giving up before the inevitable.
Onslaught was still on the beach, visor narrowed as he fought it. Still trying. In a distant corner of Blast Off's mind, he pitied the mech's futile resistance.
The dolphins splashed and squealed. Brawl was tentatively sitting back on his heels by now, and Vortex was sliding step by step closer. The 'copter seemed reluctantly fascinated by their owner's play. Swindle had collected himself and was already sitting in the shallows fixedly staring at how Blast Off's knuckles were massaging at their owner's belly. A flush of pink was spreading across the grayish-white skin, and the three Combaticons watching it happen twitched as the slave programming picked up on that.
The programming assimilated every single information resource available to them, because it sort of was them. Their lord's skin flush meant something very important to their new priority lists. Swindle and Vortex blinked, confused, but Blast Off's visor narrowed as his repair system pinged him.
Oh. That's…oh. That's what the color change meant.
Well. That wasn't a piece of equipment he wanted to come online. He really didn't, despite how the servile, eager-to-please portion of him subverted by the slave programming did.
Delaying unpleasant things only gave dread time to build into a crushing case of self-pity and sick despair. Even as a slave, Blast Off had marginally more dignity than that left. For the sake of those dregs of control, he was going to choose to go along with the programming imperative instead of waiting for it to railroad him.
It required taking action right now, however. "Onslaught, come here," he said in a dead voice.
His spark screwed tight as it struck him who he'd just ordered around, but the programmed order in his head insisted it was his duty to do so. Just as it was the harem slaves' duty to obey. His commander fought the order for a long moment while the other Combaticons stared, dumbfounded. Vortex snickered, but it sounded forced. Swindle glanced between commander and favorite slave nervously. Brawl tried to stand but found his legs weren't ready to cease kneeling yet.
Onslaught resisted, but the programming won. Head down and hatefully submissive, he waded into the water to obey.
Fellow-feeling or not, Blast Off still snapped, "Don't upset him!"
Him being, of course, their owner. The all-important center of their very beings, at this point. Panicking the dolphin pod a second time was a nightmare none of them were ready to face.
Onslaught immediately slowed to a gentle walk that only stirred the water. Blast Off concentrated on keeping their lord and master distracted with the gentlest stroking he could manage. His tanks pinched at the result that had. Vortex's laughter was most definitely forced now, and there was a layer of despair under the sound.
"Take over," Blast Off ordered, still in that dead level voice. Onslaught winced. "Now, Onslaught."
His (former) leader unwillingly knelt and extended his hands into the water. Their owner, curious as ever, wriggled free of Blast Off's hand in order to investigate. The shuttle coached Onslaught in the basics of dolphin handling while the other Combaticons looked on in envy. Envy with an edge of self-hate thick enough to taste, but envy nonetheless. Onslaught had been chosen to touch their master. The head of the harem had chosen her second-in-command.
Her? Her. Right. Blast Off was apparently now part of the gender binary world dictated by which set of genitalia a dolphin possessed. Officially part of that, because her new...pleasure-slave modifications had pinged him as they came online. Time for a test run.
Which she would take care of as soon as Onslaught got the hang of delicately stroking their lord and master's, er, equipment. Big metal fingers were not made for handling tiny things. Onslaught's clumsiness was partly from the ridiculous size difference and partly from horror as he realized just what he was…servicing.
Blast Off herself eyed the thing and swallowed. The stiff, S-shaped thing poking out from the rubbery fish-like creature was a foregone result of stroking a mammal this way. There was no point in getting upset. And why would she get upset? No cause for alarm here. The shuttle lived to serve, and apparently servitude to organics involved offering excessive opportunities for mating.
Primus spare her this humiliation.
This was the worst day of Blast Off's entire life.
"I'll return soon," she murmured as she stood. Excusing herself from the curious visors and optics turned her way, she waded slowly back up to the beach and strode out of sight to the other side of the island. It wasn't a big landmass, but there was privacy enough for a test. Her scattered slivers of dignity were shriveling inside her from what the test required, but she'd salvage what she could. Privacy allowed her tattered pride a momentary stay of execution until the real deal replaced the tests.
Well, what pride she could possibly retain through the unexpected side effects of the test.
That was - that -
That.
In all likelihood, that was what the mating fuss was about. It explained a lot about why Earth seemed so obsessed with sex.
It took her a while to recover enough just to stand up. Joints didn't want to work, and her core systems had overheated almost to red-line levels. Also, she throbbed in a way that made her want to, uh, repeat the test. To be 100% sure the mods were operating correctly, of course. Because as repulsive as the procedure was, she had never felt anything like it. Being squicked and rampantly aroused at the same time left her shamed but guiltily titillated afterward. Primus. She wasn't supposed to enjoy this slag!
Yet she was still shuddering slightly when she returned to the group. Fortunately, none of them noticed. They were busy with other things.
The four Combaticons were, once again, lined up on the beach. Swindle was the only one managing to keep his face out of the sand. As Blast Off came into sight, the conmech grimaced and bowed before the invisible force of the slave program's repressive disapproval.
Heavy footsteps gave away her approach to the others, even if they couldn't see her. Vortex's rotors spun, and his voice cracked as he plaintively asked, "He'll be back, right? He's not...we're not bad because he went to go fishing. It's a thing animals do. They gotta eat." Brawl grunted from beside him, and the helicopter's voice cut off in a muted whine. Both mechs burrowed their masks into the sand as their sensor networks rolled a long wave of agony through them.
"I know that I've done nothing wrong," Onslaught said hoarsely into his own patch of sand. "Logic's not helping."
Right, time to see how much authority she really had as head slave. "Our master prefers the company of his family. We are slow and not yet fully adapted to the ocean," Blast Off informed them, tentative but attempting firm belief in her own words. "It's our responsibility to be ready for his return. We are, hmm, establishing a secure location instead of being a traveling group. If he wishes us to accompany him to a new location, he will inform us. Perhaps he is waiting for us to be ready to travel."
She waited, expecting the programming to reject her reasoning and strike her down to grovel in the sand like the others, but -
One by one, the other Combaticons slowly relaxed. She could hardly believe it. It'd worked. She really did have authority as their owner's favored toy!
There were certain duties that came with that position, however. Blast Off winced as the slave programming gave a warning ping. If she was voluntarily going to step up as the head of the harem, then it was going to pile duties on her. It was her duty to keep the other slaves in line, and the programming was warning her that there were inspections to be done.
"Transmit your status updates," she commanded quietly. Brawl, Vortex, and Swindle didn't hesitate in transmitting the status of their internal changes. They looked too relieved to question why she wanted them. From his spot kneeling in the sand, Onslaught shot her a murderous look of betrayal that she refused to acknowledge. After glaring for a minute, Onslaught finally followed the order. He seemed to realize that arguing over it would only grind their collective pride against reality until nothing was left but submission.
Blast Off pored over the data for a moment before she saw what she'd feared. "Swindle. Your...womb," that never got any easier to say, "is complete."
The conmech shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah. Says I've got to run a test, but I don't know what kind of test it is."
Brawl squeamishly inched away from his - now her - side. Not that the tank was in any position to be grossed out by what was happening inside his own body.
Blast Off didn't want to do this. But part of her actually did, for reasons Swindle would discover soon enough. Despite the loathing her mind felt, the shuttle's body informed her it was willing for another go. Mentally stomping on the disgusting eagerness worked about as well as could be expected, which was not at all.
Sighing, she folded down to sit cross-legged in the sand and carefully retrieved the stick she'd painstakingly searched the other end of the island for. It was kind of necessary. Once she'd figured out what had to be done for the test, it'd taken half an hour to find anything suitable to use. It wasn't a big stick. Fragging tiny by the standards of giant metal robots, but not too big nor too small according to the criteria of her newly functional equipment. She had difficulty holding onto it because it was shorter than even the first knuckle of her finger and thin enough that she'd snapped her first two sticks apart before getting the hang of how much pressure wood could take.
"What's that?" Brawl asked, and Blast Off realized the other Combaticons were watching her with varying expressions of curiosity.
She steeled herself and beckoned to Swindle. "Come here."
"Why?" The Jeep was already getting up and walking over, but she looked at Blast Off like she was crazy when the shuttle pointed downward. "What?"
"Lay over my knees," she commanded. This was going to be awkward no matter the positioning, but the opening that needed testing was tucked underneath Swindle's chest in rootmode. It would work, so long as the mech - wait, was that the proper term anymore? They were female only in organic terms, not mechanical, right? - stretched out.
"Why?" Swindle asked again. She clearly didn't want to, but she allowed the shuttle to pull her closer until her knees pressed to the larger Combaticon's knee. The hand attempting to push her down over Blast Off's lap was resisted. "What're you doing? Stop it!"
Blast Off gazed at her levelly. "The test."
"Oh." She still didn't get it, but the slave program caused a visible flare of her optics as it kicked the Jeep in the back of the cortex. "Um...okay, but why do I have to do this?" She laid forward slowly, guided down by the shuttle's hand until she draped over the bigger frame's legs. Shorter legs flailed for a moment before she drew them up, leaving her kneeling in Blast Off's lap with her feet hooked over one knee, chest flat to the other, and hands nervously coming up to almost hug that same knee for balance.
The shuttle sighed again and put her arm over the mech's back, wrapping it around and under to probe for what her HUD overlay said would be there. "Because it has to be tested." Swindle made an odd noise as one blunt, too-large finger found what it was poking about for. The other three Combaticons stared. Blast Off passed the stick to the appropriate hand before lightly restraining her small teammate.
The odd sound repeated as the stick gently nosed in. "Whaaa…" Swindle reset her vocalizer. "Uh, Blast Off? What's that?"
"A stick."
"I know it's a stick!" The conmech shot her an irritated, somewhat alarmed glare. "I meant, what the slag did you just do with it?"
Suicide would have been a viable option except the slave program classified such things as property damage. Slaves weren't allowed to do it. Instead, Blast Off kept her voice leeched of emotion as she gave the stick the tiniest push. In Cybertronian terms, it was a negligible measure. In organic terms, it bottomed out Swindle's brand new orifice. "This is called penetration," she told the Jeep, because explaining the humiliation was all part of the slave experience, apparently.
A look of dawning comprehension lit Swindle's face, followed by an uneasy squirm. "Oh. It feels weird. I expected it to…I don't even know what I expected." She hugged the shuttle's knee tighter, as if to anchor herself. Shock hit as Onslaught and Vortex got it next. Brawl still seemed confused by Swindle's discomfort, but the conmech shrugged after a second of adjusting to the intrusion. "It's not bad. I barely notice it's there."
That was lie, but Blast Off didn't call her on it. Swindle was referring to the physical invasiveness, not the metal repercussions of the probing. The way purple optics were avoiding looking in the direction of anyone was a dead give-away of those. The embarrassment was, however, only going to get worse from here.
Blast Off reset her vocalizer, stifling an awkward urge to apologize. "…to test the full function of the mod, you must be aware that the stick represents our master's genitalia."
Vortex barked a laugh on reflex, because the rest of them certainly didn't see any humor in the situation. Onslaught and Brawl both recoiled. Swindle twisted to gape at her.
The change-over could almost be heard. The shuttle remembered it vividly herself, recalling how making the connection between stick and owner clicked something in the slave programming. Their lord and master was, right this moment, fucking Swindle by proxy. Swindle's body reacted accordingly.
An engine roared to life, and Swindle's vocalizer choked out a high-pitched noise. Armor abruptly went from sun-hot to baking as the grounder's systems jumped from neutral to high gear in the space of a few seconds. Blast Off braced a hand on the smaller mech's shoulders to keep her down. Meanwhile, most of her concentration was on not breaking the stick she was ever-so-carefully tweaking in its tight little hole.
A tight hole connected to thread-thin traceries of pressure sensors and nerve wires that had been built to be so sensitive the relatively smooth surface of the stick felt like sandpaper inside it. Densely packed circuitry built to mimic foreign, alien senses transmitted exactly as programmed. This was no jack sliding into a socket. Blast Off's own body heated in excitement as he manipulated the stick, turning it in his fingers like a drill so it rubbed against the sides and bottom of Swindle in a hard twist. The stick did not compromise, but the elastic material jam-packed with firing sensors did. It contracted around the stick and loosened a second later, rippling as the pressure changed from second to second, and Swindle cried out. Electric thrill translated into a give, a stretch that was purely organic. Metal didn't have it, metal couldn't mimic it, and metal wasn't constructed to understand it.
The slave programming gave Swindle's frame no room for error, hijacking his sensor network and ruthlessly rewriting what should have been frighteningly alien and incomprehensible into the epitome of good. It mainlined utmost pleasure straight from the new hardware - wetware - into every working sensor in the slave's body, and the programming made the rewrite, the submission to their owner's fundamentally different body feel so very, very right.
"Oh Primus, oh. Blast Off!" Huge fingers gave the tiniest flex, and the stick stirred. Overwhelmed by a fresh flood of sensations that shouldn't be physically possible, Swindle's garbled cry became a plea. The hole clenched, the protective flaps covering it trying to pull the stick deeper and keep it in place. There was a slickness coating the inside now, contained by the outer lips. Both pairs worked together to create a water-tight seal that sucked greedily at the stick. The conmech curled as pleasure too fluid to be anything but organic drenched her body and shook her with its power. Only by the hand pinning her down kept her from bucking right off the legs she clawed at. "Blast Off!"
She remembered how it felt. Blast Off hesitated before giving the stick a shallow thrust.
Swindle screamed. The rasping pant of her ventilation fans sputtering underlaid the shriek, and the Jeep writhed. Ecstasy tore sounds from her throat that sent Onslaught and Brawl backpedalling away. Vortex just stood there and stared.
It didn't take long. Their new reproductive systems were meant to turnover in time with their master's completion. That didn't make the short time span any less intense, as Blast Off well knew. The finale, the climax, wasn't the sharp crackling release of an overload as they knew it. Tension coiled in rhythmic surges, turning tighter and tighter on the peak of every thrust until it unraveled in a hot gush that rattled plating and melted reason. The clench, the hungry milking spasm, had nothing of mechanics about it. Swindle gave one last cry and stiffened in her first orgasm.
Blast Off's own body shuddered in remembered pleasure, restlessly clenching a part of herself that suddenly felt achingly empty and unpleasantly damp.
She pulled the stick free and tumbled the smaller Combaticon off her lap. Swindle twitched, trying to make uncooperative limbs less limp but ending up as a heap on the sand when the effort failed. Still taking in huge, gulping pants of air, the Jeep blearily peered up at her. "Is it…gonna be like…that…every time?"
"I have no idea." And she wasn't going to admit that she wanted to find out.
An update pinged. Blast Off sighed and beckoned the next of her fellow slaves down. Onslaught shuffled forward.
This was the worst day ever.
[* * * * *]
. ?thread=8674185#t8674185 (Insecticons/any - "licking, nibbling, voyeurism, feeding")
[* * * * *]
It started, as most of these things do, because the sex was really good.
When a bunch of upstart eating machines and an Elite Seeker got together, what else could be expected? It wasn't like they were hanging out for the conversation, and that wasn't exactly an insult against the Insecticons. Skywarp wasn't known for his intellectual side. His kinky one, certainly, but his smarts? Not so much. Not at all, in fact.
Hey now, not to say he was dumb. He caught on to the longing stares quick enough, and as stated previously, he had a kinky side a kilometer wide. Falling headfirst into a puddle of oil during a mission would have usually resulted in pestering someone to help him get the residue off. Strutting by a drooling group of bugs? That was clever. The little pop he added to his hips when he'd passed by to let them get a good look at his oil-dripping aft was particularly smart.
Let's consider Skywarp, shall we? The Insecticons sure were, at the time. Skywarp, of the sleek black wings and purple trim, two of the favorite colors for the bugs. Hold up and do a slow pan off his aft for a minute, because I know that's where you were staring but those wings deserve a second look. Not that every Decepticon's a bug, but everyone's got an appreciation for a good set of wings. It just so happened that a wide set of wings paired with powerful thrusters added up to great potential mating material for the Insecticons in particular. For those with an insect's instincts and some bestial behavior hard-coded into mechanical criteria, Seekers had it going on.
Not that the bugs didn't know what was making them lust after the Seekers' pride and joy, but this particularly lovely set of wings had dribbles of oil slicking them up. When Skywarp cocked a hip and posed long enough to give them a Come and Get It look, he flicked the wing he glanced back over. Oil spattered. Shrapnel moaned. Oh, those wings. Slippery, gleaming panels of black and the perfect shade of purple! The stripes were just broad enough for an Insecticon's tongue, if that's the standard of measurement a mech wanted to use, and frag if that standard wasn't in use right then and there.
Add in the flashing trickster's confidence, a dash of fool's carelessness, and that mischievous grin? Mechs, let me tell you - the Insecticons were sold on Skywarp. He had the attitude, he had the looks, and right then, he had the scrumptiousness of a free treat. He smelled six kinds of yummy and looked twenty more.
There was tasty, and then there was tasty. Skywarp was both, right then.
They totally swarmed him.
Skywarp was brilliant in comparison to some. He hadn't left the safety of the rest of the mission group, which was the smartest thing possible in this situation. Skywarp liked his kinks, but he liked that whole 'safety first' idea, too. Getting eaten out by the Insecticons? Fun. Getting eaten by the Insecticons? He'd like to think he was intelligent enough to avoid that.
Having it happen right in the middle of the oil extraction mission? Perfect. The thrill of being under observation never got old. Every prank he pulled gave him a high off the attention, and right now he was running hot. It might be that he had a reputation as an unrepentant prankster because the fall-out turned him on so much. Skywarp thoroughly enjoyed attention, good or bad. Fuelplay and fun in public were just what the Seeker ordered. Exhibitionism meant safety along with the enjoyment of everyone's optics being glued to the spectacle.
The Insecticons were all for this. Give them an order of that as well. Side order of extra nummies, preferably in the form of energon. Skywarp covered in oil was delicious. Covering him in energon would be like dipping a strawberry in melted chocolate: it got better.
Skywarp was a walking buffet, my friends, and like a buffet, he laid there and let them feast. There was licking and scraping and moans of passion that had nothing to do with Skywarp and everything to do with the food. Truth be told, nobody could expect more from Insecticons. Wave an energon cube at them, and they'd line up to slobber, everything else forgotten. Fortunately, getting their chosen meal off was as simple as a lot of tactile contact and the strategic placement of a tiny cube of pure energon squirreled away in the depths of his cockpit.
He'd put it there himself. He'd wheedled it from Thundercracker after the accidental oil bath, but his wingmate had been willing enough to give it up once he explained why. The application of reason had aided that transaction. Let's rewind to watch it happen.
"Them?" Thundercracker gave the cluster of bugs a critical look. They weren't doing a very good job of hiding how they kept gawping at Skywarp. There were puddles of oil forming on the ground at the teleporter's feet, and puddles of drool at their own. "You want to 'face them?"
"Sure, why not?" Skywarp shrugged. Kickback had adorably teensy little wings, in his opinion, and he wanted to get his hands on the cute grasshopper. That was a decent reason to interface the guy. "It's either they get me clean and I have some fun, or I pester you to help me once we get back to base. Or, y'know, I drag in Blitzwing, but you already know how that's gonna end."
Blue wings shuddered. "Ugh, don't remind me." They'd switched bunks after the Blitzwing incident. Now Thundercracker took the top bunk, because at least if Skywarp broke the bunk again while interfacing the bolts off somebody, they wouldn't come crashing down on him in a rain of fragging. There could be no dignity in being squashed under two interfacing mechs. "I did pick up some audio mufflers after last time," he mused. "Haven't noticed any of your other partners since then."
Skywarp studied the ground intently.
Thundercracker side-eyed him. Avoiding optic contact was embarrassment in Skywarp terms. "What? What is it?"
"Never told you," his wingmate muttered, "but the bunk broke 'cause Blitzy kept kicking the ceiling."
Thundercracker squinted at him. Why would that matter?
It took him a second to translate that into their current recharge arrangement. Blitzwing being a kicker didn't seem like a big deal, but instead of kicking the ceiling, this time he'd be kicking -
Oh. The bottom of Thundercracker's bunk. All the audio muffling in the world wouldn't help there. There wasn't much more awkward than knowing your bunkmate was awake and listening in, except if said bunkmate came crashing down on top of you mid-interface. And it wasn't like Skywarp and Blitzwing wouldn't know he wasn't awake.
Alright, mechs, now let's give ourselves a peek into Thundercracker's head. Blue, thoughtful Thundercracker: theoretically the quietest of his wing. Really, that was a false rumor started by the humans. Thundercracker was actually the loudest of the Seekers current on Earth, despite Starscream's screechy claim to the title. It was only a matter of when such things were measured. Around the other Decepticons, relaxed on or off duty? He thought before he spoke and tended to slip his voice in among the group's to avoid being singled out if someone took offense. On the battlefield, however, he shattered glass and knocked mechs head over wheels. Thundercracker wasn't just loud; he boomed.
The problem was that he did that even when he didn't want to. Skywarp and Thundercracker got a four-bunk room to themselves back at base only because Skywarp was dead to the world when he conked out. That, and they'd converted two of the bunks into an entertainment station, so their quarters were the best in the whole ship. He kind of felt obligated to keep Thundercracker company, too. The blue Seeker put up with him enough that he sort of felt that he owed his wingmate some noise tolerance. Otherwise, Thundercracker would have been banished to the smallest room possible by the rest of the crew, to snore like a drowning Boeing 747 off by his lonesome.
The Constructicons had diagnosed it as an unfortunate side-effect of his sonic weaponry crossed with a persistent ventilation glitch. Skywarp diagnosed it as loud enough to shake the walls, and that was all he had to know about it. Thundercracker just looked vaguely apologetic whenever it came up.
The fact that Blitzwing was willing to put up with the Seeker's wing-shaking background snoring said something about how bad his own roommate situation was. Blitzwing bunked with the Reflector components. Privacy was a laughable. Anything done in his quarters would be broadcast across the ship, likely in real-time.
Thundercracker gave it a feeble last try, "But they're Insecticons." The argument had already been lost, but he couldn't give up without a token protest. Because, well, "They're all...alien."
Techno-organic, he meant. Metallic imitations of squishy things. He couldn't think of anything more disgusting to interface with, unless it was a real squishy.
Skywarp stretched, a deliberate move meant to showcase the oil running down his back. Bombshell thwapped Shrapnel and Kickback upside the helms. "I think it's hot."
"You would." His wingmate sighed defeat and handed over the cube. Skywarp gleefully stuffed it into his cockpit while Thundercracker averted his optics from his wingmate's exposed port. "C'mon, I don't need to see that!"
"You're going to see a lot worse," Skywarp predicted with a wild grin. When the blue Seeker gave him an alarmed look, he closed his cockpit and gave a weird shimmy. He paused, and then the teleporter hunched over to shimmy again. His expression turned inward, concentrating hard, before easing suddenly into a satisfied smirk. "Guess where they're gonna have to put their mouths to get at it now?"
Thundercracker gaped at him. There was no way - the cube was too big!
Wait, no. This was Skywarp. Skywarp seriously would modify his own port to expand, just for slag like this.
"But how will they jack in?" Thundercracker winced as soon as it slipped out. He really didn't want to know the details, no matter what his morbid curiosity was insisting.
Mechs, I know you know, but we've got to take a minute to talk shop. Let's get dirty and review the mechanics of interfacing. Skywarp had the standard flyer set-up, with his port in his cockpit and his jack - no, we'll preserve his modesty. The Insecticons' had a different set-up, of course, because their frames didn't have the same equipment placement as a Seeker's. Regardless of frametype differences, however configuration of jack and port remained the same. The Insecticons were quite a bit smaller, but their equipment matched up. It was a standard set used in everyone but the smallest and largest of frametypes. They'd have to be Minibots or a Supreme before an adaptor became necessary.
Hence the reason poor, now mentally-scarred Thundercracker's mind was wondering how a standard jack would fit if Skywarp had expanded his port to fit the cube inside.
"I'm not expecting them to," Skywarp said over his wingmate's attempt to object at being told the details. "You know them. They're gonna go crazy over all this," his wings flicked, scattering droplets of oil, and tanks gurgled emptily over in his three-mech audience, "and probably forget I'm there. This is just insurance to make sure I get something out of it besides a tongue bath."
Shrapnel picked an inopportune moment to slaver. Thundercracker jerked his optics away and swallowed hard, looking rather nauseated. That, my mechs, was the definition of Too Much Information.
Fast forward to the Feast of Saint Skywarp, who now inhabited the Luscious Pantheon. All devout Insecticons worshiped and dined at the altar of his body. Praise Primus from whom all blessings flowed, praise Skywarp for the oil below. Mmm, yeah.
The Seeker arched off the ground, thighs pushed apart by an impatient beetle. His legs wrapped around the bug, pulling him closer. A grasshopper ardently attended to the neck exposed when Skywarp threw back his head to cry out. Which he did, gasping for cooling air as Shrapnel slithered down his front to lap at the nooks and crannies of his chest. Nibbling marched down the inside of his legs and back up the outside, only to devolve into urgent lapping at his pelvic joints. Hands slid through the liquid covering him and left rainbow-hued greasy smears in their wakes that Kickback went after the moment he sucked neck cabling clean.
Stop here to imagine what it's like to always be hungry. To always have a hollow pit in the core of your being, to be unable to feel a full tank because the churn of organic matter inside digested into insufficient energy. To always have a need for more to consume, because the craving was inbuilt and whenever it might be satiated, the cloning prerogative clicked in to drain the reservoir and render you empty again. Yet every surging wave of conversion put you on the peak of energy, washing up and down your body to shiver and shudder on the verge of completion. Every mouthful thrust that warm uptick down your throat, and every swallow that hit bottom rippled out through your body in a nearly orgasmic split second of fulfillment that make your optics roll up and joints tremble with the force of every chewing motion.
Got that? Because that's what it felt like to be an Insecticon.
Into this all but sexual eating experience walked Skywarp, with his teasing looks and blatant invitation. Yes, they wanted him. How could they not? He was the finest piece of aft to be served up on a silver platter.
Bombshell settled between his legs and set to licking his lower half clean. The beetle transformed into his insect mode, and his horn sought the depths of each thruster for the last drops of oil while Skywarp squeaked and thrashed at the probing. The Seeker didn't try very hard to get free, and maybe Bombshell checked and double-checked for oil drops in unlikely places just to get that flush of heat burning hotter under the large Decepticon's armor.
Shrapnel went for the torso. There were pools of oil along the cockpit latches and in the pectoral vents. He went after them with a will, all the while tracking that elusive, melting scent of energon. Somehow, somewhere in this jet, there was energon. Pure, delicious energon, and he intended to find it. He simply meant to take his time to sip from the collected pools of oil on Skywarp's chest.
Kickback was the lucky one, because the arms left to him reached out in offering. While he fed off of mouthfuls of neck cables, slurping the oily film off their slender lengths, hands fondled his narrow wings in return. He captured one hand in his grip, and the other held his head in place while he sucked every finger clean. His tanks rumbled online even as the fingers stroked the roof of his mouth, tantalizing flicks leaving metal and carbon aftertastes. A Seeker's frame was much larger than an Insecticon's; one finger filled his mouth. Two stretched his lips and forced his jaw down. Three left him unable to seal his lips around them, resulting in a drip of oral fluid down his chin as his tongue pushed and curled around them. Slick and warm, they plunged in until he gagged, but he noisily attempted to suck them down further. A deep sound of hunger came from his throat as a fourth finger attempted to penetrate him as well.
When it failed, Skywarp reluctantly withdrew his hand with a last, lingering stroke of his forefinger down the center of Kickback's tongue. The Insecticon lit his visor and gave each finger an extra just-to-be-sure suck, one at a time, before turning his helm to nip at the other big hand now being offered to him. The cleaned hand went up to massage his antenna, and Kickback whimper-moaned like he'd smelled a fresh dish joining the buffet dinner.
Stand back and look, like the other Decepticons on the mission were. Thundercracker kept glancing away like he didn't want to watch, but there was something irresistible about the way Skywarp groaned and panted on the ground. Nobody could look away for long. Work stumbled to a halt as they stood around and watched.
The small swarm of bugs crawled all over him: on top of him, behind him, under one knee and climbing over the other, eeling beneath one wing and clambering over the tip of the opposite. They never stayed still. They writhed around him and each other in an undeniably organic twining dance that was as repulsive as it was attractive. Morphobots had been, after all, an underground pornographic hit before the war started. Tentacles and bestial rutting were a guilty pleasure no one there would admit to, but it was certainly what came to mind while watching this display. When the watching Decepticons next looked for a frag buddy, this was what their lust would hold in its subconscious.
This was a feeding frenzy, a techno-organic revelry centered on food as a sexual thing. The pursuit of the taste after the first rich layer had been stripped off riveted the attention of everyone involved and fascinated those who weren't.
Shrapnel rode the Seeker's cockpit in short, rocking bursts mirroring how his tongue lapped at the streams of oil freed from air vents and between pleasure-flexed armor plating. He kept licking long after it seemed the oil was gone. Kickback's mouth moved over Skywarp's face, less kissing than vacuuming, but when mouths met, neither participant seemed inclined to move on quickly. Kickback licked and nuzzled, nuzzled and licked, but his path seemed to bounce between Shrapnel and Skywarp, Skywarp and Shrapnel. When he ended up straddling the Seeker's face, Shrapnel laid claim to his lips before they could go chasing anymore oil.
Skywarp chuckled, sounding strained but happy, and Kickback abruptly clawed at the wide chest he half-lay on as the Seeker evidently located where Insecticon frametypes hid their ports. The large Decepticon wasn't known for vast leaps of intellect, but he could connect the dots and make an Insecticon squeal. Kickback's antenna laid back and flicked up in time with the mech's tongue, and Shrapnel reared back in surprise as the kiss became violently aggressive, almost an attack.
That's when Bombshell struck from beneath.
The beetle had mouthed his way up from Skywarp's pelvis, transforming to nestle down in the Seeker's lap and start in on the bottom of the cockpit. It smelled so good. It smelled of energon, sweet and thick, and arousal. Energy-high arousal, potent as it ever was in a mech this big, and swelling higher as Kickback and Shrapnel turned their gluttony on each other. Skywarp's overload was approaching, he could smell it, and the riled heat desire caused in the larger frametype's systems could be sliced like a redwood.
It was intoxicating. It was a frag-tease like none other. It was as if someone had burnt a rainforest and wafted the concentrated aroma of wasted energy straight into his face. Bombshell whined in sheer desperation and dove toward Shrapnel with both hands at the ready, because all that energy he couldn't have? No! No, he had to have something! If not to fill his tanks, then at least to sample!
Put yourself in their places, mechs. Sure, Skywarp had fallen into an oil vat. That wasn't a lot of fuel, not split between three bugs. He'd been an appetizer, not a main course. They'd savored him because he was all kinds of tasty, but he hadn't come close to satisfying their appetites.
The hotter his systems ran, the more aromatic he became as the scent of hot oil rose from his plating. The greasy glimmer of oil became a organic smell denser than the thin, slippery hints of hot lubricant drifting from his joints, or the tank-clenching prickling scent the Insecticons picked up with every beat of the Seeker's fuel pump. Fuel, that delicate here-and-gone whiff of air told them. Plump fuel lines, full reserve tanks, intact joints well-lubricated and waiting to be cracked open, sucked clean, and gnawed upon for the metals you can't get on this planet. Eat me. Devour me.
Skywarp arched under them as the three Insecticons went after each other instead. Nibbles turned to nips turned to outright biting, and their hands tore at each other as they frantically turned their feeding frenzy into something else. Something that wouldn't get them shot in the heads by the watching crowd, because Skywarp wasn't as dumb as he sometimes acted. The watchers weren't just there to excite the teleporter's attention-seeking nature. So Bombshell took what he could get without getting shot. He buried his facemask between Shrapnel's neck and antenna, his hand squirming between cockpit and aft down below, and Kickback's own antenna were abused as Shrapnel took control of their messy kiss after a deft yank.
And that's when Skywarp popped his cockpit.
The three Insecticons froze. Thundercracker sighed, half a laugh and half an exasperated groan. He knew what was coming. The uncontrolled shudder through the bugs as the smell hit was visible.
One cube. Three Insecticons. One Decepticon's port. Three eager tongues.
Three voracious mouths, all competing to lick every last smear of energon away...
Y'know what, mechs? Let's fade to black and give them some privacy. I think you know how this story ended.
Happily, if you get my drift.
[* * * * *]