His Shoulder Hurts, And Yet, He Craves A Good Fuck.

@suckmybearings

He exvented when his subverted connection was abruptly cut from the ship's communication channel; an alert of failure flashed across his HUD when he attempted to call back. With a fissure of annoyance, the Wrecker knocked hard against the underbelly a two more times, and then continued to knock as he started walking to the front of the ship. "C'mon, hoss," Wheeljack coaxed in a loud, taunting voice, banging his fist against the steel hull with every step he took. "You're one of my girls, too. I got somethin' y'a need." As he rounded to the front and positioned himself to be seen, full-view, through the ship's windscreen, he reached down and unholstered the grenade from his hip.

"And one way or another, I'm comin' in."

The floor is at least somewhat cool, though it is rapidly heating up as it absorbs the excess off of his frame.

He's already tried the washrack, turning the flow of solvent off in favor of straight water (from the outdoor hookup), as cold as it would go. It felt nice while he was in there, but the second he stepped out, things just got hot all over again. And somehow, it just seems to be getting worse.

The unnatural revving of internal processes has transcended from profoundly needy to painful. Everything hurts, everything throbs -- Primus, even his dermal layer is aching. A breath of breeze feels like sandpaper against the Seekers extremely raw external sensors, and for a while he deeply considers trying to get to the hospital.

That thought is quickly dismissed. What is he supposed to tell them? That something in his head BROKE and he's so horny that it can't even be classified as "horny" anymore and he feels like he's going to have a fuel pump failure and a brain aneurysm all at once?

And what the FUCK is that noise?

"The intruder is still outside, captain," the Sky Claw's AI informs him.

Wheeljack. The rat bastard is outside, pounding on the underbelly of the ship.

Dreadwing groans.

"Captain," it repeats. "The intruder appears to be brandishing an explosive."

He's what. That gets his attention.

Despite his intense desire to just stay on the floor until he dies, the Seeker forces himself to his feet and lurches up towards the cockpit. It takes him four tries to type in the correct code (his hands are shaking something terrible) to unlock the port side quick-access door panel, but when he hears it click and hiss a bit, Dreadwing slams the hatch open, making it rattle on its tracks.

The ladder rungs, normally tucked seamlessly into the ships paneling, pop out when the door is opened.

"WHAT?!"

It's probably the most horrid and aggressive he has ever sounded.

"Wheeljack, if you are stupid enough to even think about setting that off, reconsider. I have enough explosive material in here to level this entire yard and half of the slagging space port across the street. Now, go away."

Hmph. He is horny and annoyed by this.

Send me a Character and I'll tell you if my Muse would sleep with them

Not Enough Alcohol in the World || No || Maybe if I were wasted || Maybe || Eh…Sure || Yes || TAKE YOUR CLOTHES OFF NOW!

Dreadwing can't help but shudder at those slim, lithe fingers of hers, little clawtips getting into his armor. He wastes little time, leaning down to catch her mouth in a hot, fierce kiss. "I can do that. Now... where would you like my mouth first...?"

She climbs on to the huge nest, crawling closer. Past all comforts, of berth, she finds a good seat upper on his lap, and small digits already find the seams of his armor.

" Hmm. You're very much running, I can tell. I can feel. But I might be in need of some convincing..." she grins, letting hand set over where she can feel the engine. " of course I could help, with a little jump-start, if needed. "

Can't sleep the clowns will eat him.

Dreadwing is more than welcoming when Rung makes moves to climb into his lap. He opens his arms and gets comfortable, prepared to stay for an extended period of time if the antique needs him to, only setting his big, heavy hands on Rung's back when the other settles down.

He seems upset. The Seeker doesn't like that, but holds his tongue and listens as Rung speaks his piece. The words do nothing to soothe the worried furrow of Dreadwing's brows.

"When, what?" He draws the finely knitted blanket that rests on the back of the couch down around the little orange mech's petite frame.

"Rung, that is absolute nonsense. Do you have any idea how much solace, comfort, peace, and safety you bring to so many of us? All of us vagabonds who come here can find something that we have not encountered in eons -- home. You have made something so precious to so many, in that. A home? Out here? For anyone and everyone?

"Nevermind its master. This place is safe and you make it so. How could you ever say you are not doing a good job?"

Dreadwing whuffles softly through his vents.

"But you give too much, sometimes. No one, no one, deserves anything if it comes at your own cost. If no one else can do what you do, but you do not want to do what you do, then that is your answer. Nothing you could give, absolutely nothing, will ever mitigate your right to your own autonomy and no one has any right to make you feel guilty for that. Not even yourself."

He smiles softly and runs the softer pad of his clawed thumb along Rung's cheek, under his optic.

"Everything is going to be okay, my dear friend. I will do everything in my power to make it so."

Oh, the bitter irony in his insistence. If Rung wasn’t here to be devoured, that specter of the thing that called itself Unicron would not linger so often, telling him so—

He sniffles and unfolds from his squished up position against the arm of the sofa to instead gingerly start nudging his way into Dreadwing’s lap. The flightframe is warm, and his spark is steady, and Rung really does trust him with his life, with Elegy’s life. Dreadwing is dear company.

“I honestly don’t know,” Rung admits after a moment, half-hidden against the bulk of Dreadwing’s chassis. “I came back to the Temple because I had nowhere else I knew how to be. I treasure everyone who comes to visit, who stays, who just passes through. I mean it. I just have this feeling like I’m not… like I’m missing something and I’m not doing a good job and I don’t know why. Reverting back to how things were with the Council would be wrong— as you say, the easy way is not always the right way— but at the same time, I don’t think anyone else can- can do what I do. What is my responsibility in this regard? What are the boundaries of ethics and duty of care when— when—”

Aft play

Definitely not | No | Not Really | Its Okay | Kinda |Yes | Fuck yes |There goes my pants | HOLY SHIT GIVE IT TO ME NOW

Bonus: Giving | Receiving | Both

"...What even is that?"

"I want to see if I can get you to overload just by touching your wings. I know some of them are sensitive, certain areas and especially around the hinges. I want to see how sensitive they are. And after, if I can I'll frag you and see how many times I can get you to overload with a vibrator on your node, spike in you and still touching your wings."

Dreadwing pauses. He opens his mouth. He shuts his mouth.

Buffering...

Buffering...

Please stand by.

“I really would like to suck your spike— oh, hell, why did I say that out loud. Oh my goodness. Dreadwing, I’m sorry!”

Blurt out the first sexual fantasy or desire your muse has towards mine, no matter what it is. No consequences! SEIZE THE MOMENT! (Anons welcome!)

...!

Dreadwing takes a second to register what Rung just said, only to promptly choke on his tea. It's really a good thing he doesn't have a nose, or it would have come right out of it, as comedic as that may have been.

"Ah-- uhm," he manages between coughing fits. Finally, he clears the liquid from his ventways. "I... I... well that is -- ah. That is ... well, it's something we can absolutely do, provided all parties involved in important relationships --" Megatron. "--.... consent. But only if I can also reciprocate. I ... find it distasteful to only take from my partners and not give in return."