Description: There's some fan-debate over Cyclonus' cheek holes and whether its worse for sucking spikes. But to be frank, all that makes me want to do is make him put that tongue to use elsewhere.
Warnings:
Sexual content--Sticky, Oral, Size Difference
Rating:
M
Continuity:
IDW Comics/More Than Meets The Eye
Characters:
Cyclonus and Tailgate


Cyclonus was far from a passive mech. But for all the control he held over the where and when of their relationship—never so much as a clasped servo in public, and unflinchingly patient in the face of dry spells that nearly made Tailgate (who was not a terribly lewd bot, all things considered) scream in sexual frustration—the choices he made for the what often held an unexpected air of subservience, one that just became more and more apparent as time went on. After all, how many fairly large, dominant mechs exert their authority just to ride the spike of a minibot half their size?

Tailgate couldn't tell whether this was due to Cyclonus' unusual personal tastes, or if someone had, uh, trained him well. He knew better than to ask. Still, it came as a bit of a surprise when his tentative request to try something new resulted in his being hoisted up along the berth, settling with one little leg slung over each of the larger mech's broad shoulders.

Now, there were enough nasty rumors circulating—among those crew members less inclined to appreciate the presence of an ex-officer for the Decepticons— that even Tailgate (now) knew holes in one's cheeks aren't exactly conductive to the sort of acts said crewmates insisted had earned Cyclonus his previous position. It wasn't until that tongue swept across the rim of his valve cover that he remembered suction wasn't the only thing a mech's mouth was good for.

"Wh—oh. Oh, wow." If Cyclonus was going to keep surprising him like this, perhaps he should invest in a better vocabulary with which to deal with it. Right now—sputtering static, servos hovering above that horned helm, uncertain exactly where would be the least disrespectful to touch—he isn't exactly at his most eloquent. One more insistent exploration along the slit splitting his cover down the middle, and he caved, disengaging the locks that sealed his valve off from the world—and from Cyclonus.

At first, gut instinct and shyness had Tailgate wound up as tight as a helical spring, but as usual, he was extraordinarily easy to please—and even easier, it seemed, to reduce to whimpers. Each little flick of that tongue toyed with the sensitive nodes lining his outermost calipers, circuits completing at the graze of soft plating, only to be broken again in an instant.

Charge built and crackled faintly, electric arcs adding a metallic tang to the taste of the lubricant that now seeped from Tailgate's valve in an unsteady trickle. What didn't drip down to puddle beneath him was lapped up dutifully, almost hungrily, by Cyclonus—after all, like most of their by-products, it wasn't so different from the energon from which it derived.

Needless to say, Tailgate's decline into a squirming, panting mess was more like a nosedive. It didn't help that Cyclonus' engines were meant for the open air, not an enclosed habitation suite. When they roared, heat rolled off in waves of a magnitude no minibot could hope to combat. It was only a matter of cycles before every ventilation became labored and accompanied by an increasingly desperate mewl, his hips bucking up blindly into the sensation as it all became too much to bear.

As if on cue, large servos slid up the curves of his thighs to seize him by the waist, grip firm, but retaining the careful air that Cyclonus' switch from claws to blunted fingers had been unable to completely eradicate. Tailgate whined as he was pinned, pawing wildly until he found something—anything— to clutch—but even brute force couldn't still him completely, nor could it quell the quivering in his thighs as the overload continued to burn its way through his systems in a heady, irresistible torrent.

When Tailgate's optics finally came back online, he found that both of his arms were wrapped tight around Cyclonus' remaining horn, clutching it to his chest. In the moment it took him to realize that he'd basically just committed the ultimate taboo, he noticed something else: Cyclonus wasn't pulling away. Wasn't shoving him off—just rumbling faintly, and in a way that didn't seem entirely threatening at that. Still… better not push his luck.

"Sorry- sorry!" The Autobot hastily released his grip, allowing the other mech to straighten out of the steep hunch he'd been inadvertently forced into.

Tailgate might've been looking like a total mess, but it was soon apparent that he wasn't the only one. Turns out cheek holes have, ah… more than one disadvantage.

And, well—Pits, he's already come this far. If Cyclonus really was so irritable that he'd flee at one unwanted touch, that moment getting yanked by the horn would've been an excellent time to speak up. So it's with a trusting, sleepy sort of defiance that one servo lifts, wiping a smidge of the faintly glowing substance off Cyclonus' chin with one stubby thumb. Taken aback—though whether it was at Tailgate's impudence or his kindness, even Cyclonus wasn't quite sure—the larger mech couldn't even muster up a frown, merely watching the little hand withdraw until his minibot berthmate broke the silence.

"If you, uh—wanted to try… you know." Tailgate confided in a hushed tone, pausing to clear his vocalizer into his palm in a faint burst of static. Cyclonus never let him just leave things at a polite hint. No, he had to come out and word everything as bluntly as the jet would himself, or he'd be here all night answering increasingly awkward questions. "…Spiking me, instead of the other way around… now might be your best chance." Their difference in size was… significant, but Tailgate couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so satisfied, so… well. Loose.

For a klik, Tailgate almost wondered if Cyclonus had heard. It wouldn't be the first time the jet ignored him, nor would it be the first time he'd declined the offer of an overload of his own. But then those watchful red optics shuttered, and Tailgate squeaked as large servos seized him by his ankles and dragged him back down the berth. And as close as that gruff voice grew in his receptors, the distance between their hips was far, far closer.

"I'll consider it."