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caiusbackupTitle: Thermotropic
Fandom: Transformers G1
Pairings: Scourge/Sweeps, Cyclonus/Scourge/Sweeps, Galvatron/Cyclonus
Rating: R
Word Count: 869
Summary: Scourge sometimes misses the first days on Chaar, the cold dark days when Cyclonus was always with them.
Content advisory: Robot orgies, featuring tentacles, plug-and-play, and sticky elements.
Scourge sometimes misses the first days on Chaar, the cold dark days when Cyclonus was always with them.
He doesn't miss anything else about that time, but--Cyclonus, warm and bright and commanding, unmistakably himself in the pile of blue wings and white faces and black beards and red claws.
When Cyclonus is there, the fight is--was--always to be the closest to him, to be the Sweep enfolded in his arms, pressed against his back, wings wrapped around him, head-gun nestled between antennae and claws
anchored deep between the folds of his plating.
Scourge usually won, and sometimes, he thinks, that's why he is Scourge, and the others are only Sweeps: when Cyclonus pulled him close, chose him to take his cables, forced two or even three tentacles between his legs when he could have distributed them fairly--
--Scourge moans, at the thought, grabs a Sweep's chest and pulls it close, binds two wings (matched or not, he doesn't bother to check) with his own cabling and grabs a wrist, pulling it between his legs--Sweep-tendrils are never enough--long fingernails scrape where Cyclonus had stretched, enjoying the sensation of being where Cyclonus was as all of them share the memory of being taken by him.
Cyclonus recharges with Galvatron, now. Of course he does: Cyclonus is drawn to Galvatron's fire as the Sweeps are drawn to Cyclonus' warmth, as the Sweeps now cling to the pale reflection of Cyclonus (their true master, always, though none ever says it) in their nominal leader.
Four claws, five--not the same Sweep, Scourge thinks, but it's already hard to tell, when they're like this; his own outlines remain distinct, for the most part, but on the edges, where his wings and cables are tangled with the others', where his own claws bury themselves in desperate blue ports, where thin inadequate sweep tendrils invade mouths and head-guns and cargo-bays and twine around fingers in hopeless imitation of Cyclonus' true tentacles.
Seven claws, five tendrils--he's not sure if it's two Sweeps or three, and it doesn't matter, they're all interchangeable, even, really, him, and of course they all want to touch, want to absorb the light and heat
and authority Cyclonus gave him, since the night he first caught their wingleader's optics.
Suddenly, Scourge is empty again; he knows this, even before he knows that Cyclonus has arrived. Once more they are five individuals (were they five, before? Or four? Perhaps six?) in one mad rush to Cyclonus' side. All of Cyclonus' sides.
Cyclonus glows and it hurts the first Sweep who touches him; they back away uncertainly, not wanting to be too close to where Galvatron had been. Anxiously, just close enough to be warmed, they follow Cyclonus back to their berth (which he approaches as though it were his berth, which is as true as any Decepticon can claim anything). Nervous, quivering, they watch as Cyclonus sprawls on the berth, filling it with his (Galvatron's) presence as even seven Sweeps never quite do.
He has more holes than usual.
None of them have anything like what Galvatron used to open Cyclonus that night, but fingers quiver against palms, cables unfurl in their casings, tendrils stroke their own thighs, not quite daring but wanting.
(Is he just going to rest?) One of them asks, or all of them does, on their private frequency.
Cyclonus looks up at them; he can hear, of course, they reprimand whichever of them said that. (Not me, they all say.)
Four pairs of optics look down when Cyclonus' meet them; Scourge's stay steady for just an astrosecond longer, and then he nods and settles himself carefully on top of Cyclonus.
(It burns. But it would be worse to refuse. And the part of him that will always be cold is delighted.)
Cyclonus' arms wrap around him, rearranging him to Cyclonus' satisfaction; Scourge's fingers start exploring, tracing around the burning scars and new connection points Galvatron made this time.
He isn't allowed in, not until Cyclonus says.
It still burns, but Scourge can feel the rest of them now, wrapping around the two of them, pressing desperately to Scourge, trying to get their share of the heat that they don't quite dare take from Cyclonus. Extra claws join Scourge's, as other claws dig deep into the gaps in his plating (he allows it, it hurts less than holding Cyclonus right now).
A sigh is the only warning, and then Cyclonus is inside him, everywhere, every tentacle buried in his body, every plug connected firmly to a port.
If not in Scourge, in one of the others; but mostly in Scourge.
Scourge burns, writhes, filled with pleasure that he would never dare ask for, never dare take, never even want from anyone else.
And then Cyclonus allows, Cyclonus demands, and if it takes all six--no, seven--of them to fill him, then Scourge makes sure that there are seven to do the job.
Fandom: Transformers G1
Pairings: Scourge/Sweeps, Cyclonus/Scourge/Sweeps, Galvatron/Cyclonus
Rating: R
Word Count: 869
Summary: Scourge sometimes misses the first days on Chaar, the cold dark days when Cyclonus was always with them.
Content advisory: Robot orgies, featuring tentacles, plug-and-play, and sticky elements.
Scourge sometimes misses the first days on Chaar, the cold dark days when Cyclonus was always with them.
He doesn't miss anything else about that time, but--Cyclonus, warm and bright and commanding, unmistakably himself in the pile of blue wings and white faces and black beards and red claws.
When Cyclonus is there, the fight is--was--always to be the closest to him, to be the Sweep enfolded in his arms, pressed against his back, wings wrapped around him, head-gun nestled between antennae and claws
anchored deep between the folds of his plating.
Scourge usually won, and sometimes, he thinks, that's why he is Scourge, and the others are only Sweeps: when Cyclonus pulled him close, chose him to take his cables, forced two or even three tentacles between his legs when he could have distributed them fairly--
--Scourge moans, at the thought, grabs a Sweep's chest and pulls it close, binds two wings (matched or not, he doesn't bother to check) with his own cabling and grabs a wrist, pulling it between his legs--Sweep-tendrils are never enough--long fingernails scrape where Cyclonus had stretched, enjoying the sensation of being where Cyclonus was as all of them share the memory of being taken by him.
Cyclonus recharges with Galvatron, now. Of course he does: Cyclonus is drawn to Galvatron's fire as the Sweeps are drawn to Cyclonus' warmth, as the Sweeps now cling to the pale reflection of Cyclonus (their true master, always, though none ever says it) in their nominal leader.
Four claws, five--not the same Sweep, Scourge thinks, but it's already hard to tell, when they're like this; his own outlines remain distinct, for the most part, but on the edges, where his wings and cables are tangled with the others', where his own claws bury themselves in desperate blue ports, where thin inadequate sweep tendrils invade mouths and head-guns and cargo-bays and twine around fingers in hopeless imitation of Cyclonus' true tentacles.
Seven claws, five tendrils--he's not sure if it's two Sweeps or three, and it doesn't matter, they're all interchangeable, even, really, him, and of course they all want to touch, want to absorb the light and heat
and authority Cyclonus gave him, since the night he first caught their wingleader's optics.
Suddenly, Scourge is empty again; he knows this, even before he knows that Cyclonus has arrived. Once more they are five individuals (were they five, before? Or four? Perhaps six?) in one mad rush to Cyclonus' side. All of Cyclonus' sides.
Cyclonus glows and it hurts the first Sweep who touches him; they back away uncertainly, not wanting to be too close to where Galvatron had been. Anxiously, just close enough to be warmed, they follow Cyclonus back to their berth (which he approaches as though it were his berth, which is as true as any Decepticon can claim anything). Nervous, quivering, they watch as Cyclonus sprawls on the berth, filling it with his (Galvatron's) presence as even seven Sweeps never quite do.
He has more holes than usual.
None of them have anything like what Galvatron used to open Cyclonus that night, but fingers quiver against palms, cables unfurl in their casings, tendrils stroke their own thighs, not quite daring but wanting.
(Is he just going to rest?) One of them asks, or all of them does, on their private frequency.
Cyclonus looks up at them; he can hear, of course, they reprimand whichever of them said that. (Not me, they all say.)
Four pairs of optics look down when Cyclonus' meet them; Scourge's stay steady for just an astrosecond longer, and then he nods and settles himself carefully on top of Cyclonus.
(It burns. But it would be worse to refuse. And the part of him that will always be cold is delighted.)
Cyclonus' arms wrap around him, rearranging him to Cyclonus' satisfaction; Scourge's fingers start exploring, tracing around the burning scars and new connection points Galvatron made this time.
He isn't allowed in, not until Cyclonus says.
It still burns, but Scourge can feel the rest of them now, wrapping around the two of them, pressing desperately to Scourge, trying to get their share of the heat that they don't quite dare take from Cyclonus. Extra claws join Scourge's, as other claws dig deep into the gaps in his plating (he allows it, it hurts less than holding Cyclonus right now).
A sigh is the only warning, and then Cyclonus is inside him, everywhere, every tentacle buried in his body, every plug connected firmly to a port.
If not in Scourge, in one of the others; but mostly in Scourge.
Scourge burns, writhes, filled with pleasure that he would never dare ask for, never dare take, never even want from anyone else.
And then Cyclonus allows, Cyclonus demands, and if it takes all six--no, seven--of them to fill him, then Scourge makes sure that there are seven to do the job.
