(no subject)
Was given the prompt "gentle" for Wip Wednesday and got back a few hits! Half weren't really fit to show even in part but I did select three excerpts. One bit from a piece I didn't finish in time for Halloween, one from an old challenge fic I was unable to finish in time but would like to revisit and one from a sweet and spicy fic that I just kinda keep forgetting to finish, lol.
Perking up, Boulder turned to welcome Graham with a smile as he jogged over. His plating puffed out with pride when Graham's attention fell to the jack-o-lanterns, face alight with awe. They really were an impressive sight with the setting sun's rays draped over them, even if they weren't yet fully developed.
"Wow," said Graham, crouching for a better look, "they look great!" He reached out to pat the jack-o-lantern nearest to him, the tallest and most oblong of the patch. "Cody will love them-- Frankie, too, even if we can’t tell her who they’re from."
Boulder deflated a little at that. Graham must not have noticed yet. "I hope so but-- well, they're not really ready for Halloween, as you can see."
"Uh," said Graham, looking between the jack-o-lanterns and Boulder, "can I?"
Sighing again, Boulder bent down and picked up the tall jack-o-lantern to turn it for Graham's inspection, showing off the totality of its solid orange. He patted it when he set it back down, an apology for embarrassing it, and said, "See what I mean? And it's the same for the rest."
Graham's fuzzy little optic ridges furrowed and his mouth worked a few times without making any words, a common habit among humans that made them look a little like they were chewing on their thoughts. It was normally charming but Boulder was beginning to worry that Graham’s struggle to say something reassuring had caused some internal damage when he finally said, "Boulder... what do you think these pumpkins are supposed to look like?"
"Jack-o-lanterns," Boulder corrected quickly but gently.
"Well, sure," said Graham, "they're going to look like jack-o-lanterns."
"Yes," said Boulder, "but I don't know when. I guess their faces might still grow in before tomorrow night but--"
"Grow in?" Graham interrupted. His voice was a little squeaky, almost like there was interference. "Boulder, someone has to make their faces. I thought you grew these for the kids to carve."
"Carve?" Boulder asked, aghast, reaching instinctively to put a hand between Graham and his jack-o-lanterns. "But-- but that can't be right! Here, look."
He reached out with his free hand and plucked the packet that the seeds had come in from the stake he’d used to label the patch. After a quick glance to reassure himself, he held it out so Graham could see. The picture on the front showed a cheerful trio of mature, grinning jack-o-lanterns nestled in the chaos of their greenery among a group of their juvenile patchmates. Above the picture, prominently displayed, the packet boasted JACK-O-LANTERN SEEDS.
Graham leaned forward to squint at the packet. He pointed and read aloud, "Jack-o-lantern pumpkin seeds." He looked up at Boulder with gentle sympathy. “They’re for growing pumpkins to make into the best jack-o-lanterns.”
A beat, then Boulder flipped the packet back over and adjusted his optical sensors for a closeup on the title text. Sure enough, the word "pumpkin" was there, in much smaller, less attention-grabbing font. He had completely missed it, so swept up in the excitement of growing the jack-o-lanterns and introducing them to Cody. Boulder's spark felt like it dropped into his tank and his fuel pump stuttered from its usual rhythm. All that time and care, all that anticipation-- for nothing?
--
“And these?” he asks, gesturing towards a display of branching glass sculptures of various colors and sizes.
“Some of our newer works,” the little creature who’d been showing off a variety of art pieces says, drawing one of the sculptures nearer, then pushing it away again before lifting it to place on the counter in front of their Cybertronian guests. Six of their ten hands worry at each other and their smile seems almost embarrassed. “I’m afraid it won’t be of much interest to, er…”
“Never mind then, Primus,” says Adaptus, deigning to speak for the first time. A sneer mars his expression as he looks down at the creature, though he seems hardly to see it. “If our feeble mechanical minds are so unfit for parsing their artwork, we might as well be on our way.”
“Oh, no, no!” the creature squeaks, their other four hands worrying now too. “It’s only that these are interpretive biological pieces and that all must be very pedestrian to beings of your caliber.”
“You would think so,” Adaptus mutters but Primus says over top of him, “We are always humbled to learn more about our neighbors. If you would be so kind?”
“Right, sirs, of course,” the creature says, trembling despite Primus’s gentle tone. They untwine one worrying hand to run a careful finger along the delicate glass branches. “These sculptures represent the nervous systems of several of the races who make up the current Galactic Alliance, arranged into the shapes they take within adult representatives at standing rest.
--
Rung titters again, startled, the sound of it vibrating against Skids’s tongue, and digs his fingers into Skids’s shoulder, his heels into Skids’s lower back. Skids can feel his own charge rising at the touch, his spark licking languidly at the inside of his chamber. The next stroke of Rung’s thumb is pressed just a little harder and the louder burr of metal on metal as that microphone caresses Skids’s plating makes Rung flinch; he stops pressing all at once, everywhere.
“I’m--”
“Shhh,” Skids soothes up along the line of his neck to his audial. His fingers whisper encouragement against Rung’s and he is disappointed when Rung keeps his hand still. “I told you that you don’t have to apologize for touching me.”
“Yes, but,” Rung starts to say.
“But nothing,” says Skids, firmer now. He pulls back to look Rung in the eye as his fingers continue to coax, just shy of pleading. “I like knowing that you want me.” He dips a little closer and lowers his voice as if to share a secret against Rung’s lips. “I like feeling it.” He catches Rung in another kiss, presses it deeper and then rumbles his pleasure when Rung responds in kind; pulls back to say, “I like when you let yourself want.”
This makes Rung twitch in a way that’s almost a flinch; his eyebrows fold over each other and his mouth contracts just short of a pucker. His optics seem very far away suddenly behind his glasses and Skids mourns the loss even as he enjoys watching Rung’s face as he turns the words over, inspects the spaces between every line and mentally drafts a dissertation on his findings. It all happens in the space of moments and then his expression smooths, though it doesn’t exactly clear up, and he’s looking at Skids again instead of beyond him.
“I do have wants,” Rung admits, almost too quiet even in the space between them. He digs his heels in again, presses his fingers a little harder; it’s tentative at first but he’s encouraged by the purr of Skids’s engine. He sounds more sure when he adds, “I do want you.”
“You have me,” Skids assures him. He nuzzles along Rung’s jaw line and presses kisses to his audial. He triggers a minor transformation, the one-by-one clicks of his chest plate latches ticking up the anticipation between them. “As much of me as you want.”
“All of you,” Rung says; he’s quiet again, and half-hidden by static, but the words are firm where he presses them against Skids’s neck. He follows them up with an open-mouth kiss and a gentle scrape of teeth against the cables. Skids purrs again and that scrape becomes a bite. Rung’s heels dig in harder, his fingers squeeze tighter and he arches up into space that Skids hadn’t even realized was between them.
Perking up, Boulder turned to welcome Graham with a smile as he jogged over. His plating puffed out with pride when Graham's attention fell to the jack-o-lanterns, face alight with awe. They really were an impressive sight with the setting sun's rays draped over them, even if they weren't yet fully developed.
"Wow," said Graham, crouching for a better look, "they look great!" He reached out to pat the jack-o-lantern nearest to him, the tallest and most oblong of the patch. "Cody will love them-- Frankie, too, even if we can’t tell her who they’re from."
Boulder deflated a little at that. Graham must not have noticed yet. "I hope so but-- well, they're not really ready for Halloween, as you can see."
"Uh," said Graham, looking between the jack-o-lanterns and Boulder, "can I?"
Sighing again, Boulder bent down and picked up the tall jack-o-lantern to turn it for Graham's inspection, showing off the totality of its solid orange. He patted it when he set it back down, an apology for embarrassing it, and said, "See what I mean? And it's the same for the rest."
Graham's fuzzy little optic ridges furrowed and his mouth worked a few times without making any words, a common habit among humans that made them look a little like they were chewing on their thoughts. It was normally charming but Boulder was beginning to worry that Graham’s struggle to say something reassuring had caused some internal damage when he finally said, "Boulder... what do you think these pumpkins are supposed to look like?"
"Jack-o-lanterns," Boulder corrected quickly but gently.
"Well, sure," said Graham, "they're going to look like jack-o-lanterns."
"Yes," said Boulder, "but I don't know when. I guess their faces might still grow in before tomorrow night but--"
"Grow in?" Graham interrupted. His voice was a little squeaky, almost like there was interference. "Boulder, someone has to make their faces. I thought you grew these for the kids to carve."
"Carve?" Boulder asked, aghast, reaching instinctively to put a hand between Graham and his jack-o-lanterns. "But-- but that can't be right! Here, look."
He reached out with his free hand and plucked the packet that the seeds had come in from the stake he’d used to label the patch. After a quick glance to reassure himself, he held it out so Graham could see. The picture on the front showed a cheerful trio of mature, grinning jack-o-lanterns nestled in the chaos of their greenery among a group of their juvenile patchmates. Above the picture, prominently displayed, the packet boasted JACK-O-LANTERN SEEDS.
Graham leaned forward to squint at the packet. He pointed and read aloud, "Jack-o-lantern pumpkin seeds." He looked up at Boulder with gentle sympathy. “They’re for growing pumpkins to make into the best jack-o-lanterns.”
A beat, then Boulder flipped the packet back over and adjusted his optical sensors for a closeup on the title text. Sure enough, the word "pumpkin" was there, in much smaller, less attention-grabbing font. He had completely missed it, so swept up in the excitement of growing the jack-o-lanterns and introducing them to Cody. Boulder's spark felt like it dropped into his tank and his fuel pump stuttered from its usual rhythm. All that time and care, all that anticipation-- for nothing?
--
“And these?” he asks, gesturing towards a display of branching glass sculptures of various colors and sizes.
“Some of our newer works,” the little creature who’d been showing off a variety of art pieces says, drawing one of the sculptures nearer, then pushing it away again before lifting it to place on the counter in front of their Cybertronian guests. Six of their ten hands worry at each other and their smile seems almost embarrassed. “I’m afraid it won’t be of much interest to, er…”
“Never mind then, Primus,” says Adaptus, deigning to speak for the first time. A sneer mars his expression as he looks down at the creature, though he seems hardly to see it. “If our feeble mechanical minds are so unfit for parsing their artwork, we might as well be on our way.”
“Oh, no, no!” the creature squeaks, their other four hands worrying now too. “It’s only that these are interpretive biological pieces and that all must be very pedestrian to beings of your caliber.”
“You would think so,” Adaptus mutters but Primus says over top of him, “We are always humbled to learn more about our neighbors. If you would be so kind?”
“Right, sirs, of course,” the creature says, trembling despite Primus’s gentle tone. They untwine one worrying hand to run a careful finger along the delicate glass branches. “These sculptures represent the nervous systems of several of the races who make up the current Galactic Alliance, arranged into the shapes they take within adult representatives at standing rest.
--
Rung titters again, startled, the sound of it vibrating against Skids’s tongue, and digs his fingers into Skids’s shoulder, his heels into Skids’s lower back. Skids can feel his own charge rising at the touch, his spark licking languidly at the inside of his chamber. The next stroke of Rung’s thumb is pressed just a little harder and the louder burr of metal on metal as that microphone caresses Skids’s plating makes Rung flinch; he stops pressing all at once, everywhere.
“I’m--”
“Shhh,” Skids soothes up along the line of his neck to his audial. His fingers whisper encouragement against Rung’s and he is disappointed when Rung keeps his hand still. “I told you that you don’t have to apologize for touching me.”
“Yes, but,” Rung starts to say.
“But nothing,” says Skids, firmer now. He pulls back to look Rung in the eye as his fingers continue to coax, just shy of pleading. “I like knowing that you want me.” He dips a little closer and lowers his voice as if to share a secret against Rung’s lips. “I like feeling it.” He catches Rung in another kiss, presses it deeper and then rumbles his pleasure when Rung responds in kind; pulls back to say, “I like when you let yourself want.”
This makes Rung twitch in a way that’s almost a flinch; his eyebrows fold over each other and his mouth contracts just short of a pucker. His optics seem very far away suddenly behind his glasses and Skids mourns the loss even as he enjoys watching Rung’s face as he turns the words over, inspects the spaces between every line and mentally drafts a dissertation on his findings. It all happens in the space of moments and then his expression smooths, though it doesn’t exactly clear up, and he’s looking at Skids again instead of beyond him.
“I do have wants,” Rung admits, almost too quiet even in the space between them. He digs his heels in again, presses his fingers a little harder; it’s tentative at first but he’s encouraged by the purr of Skids’s engine. He sounds more sure when he adds, “I do want you.”
“You have me,” Skids assures him. He nuzzles along Rung’s jaw line and presses kisses to his audial. He triggers a minor transformation, the one-by-one clicks of his chest plate latches ticking up the anticipation between them. “As much of me as you want.”
“All of you,” Rung says; he’s quiet again, and half-hidden by static, but the words are firm where he presses them against Skids’s neck. He follows them up with an open-mouth kiss and a gentle scrape of teeth against the cables. Skids purrs again and that scrape becomes a bite. Rung’s heels dig in harder, his fingers squeeze tighter and he arches up into space that Skids hadn’t even realized was between them.