21st jun challenge response - "So let's find a bar/so dark we forget who we are/till all the scars
Optimus stared into blue optics watching him with hunger.
For once there were no titles, no duties; just Optimus and Hot Rod, two mechs that run away from their responsibilities for a night for themselves.
Now they were sitting in the dark, and probably filthy, booth of some ding bar of lower Cybertron staring at each other - systems hot with high-grade and desire induced overcharge.
They stumbled into the room they booked - no questions asked, no answers given.
There was nothing gentle in the way their hands groped - demanding more, kisses insatiable and hard, denta grazing against pliant metal.
Between snarls, growls and cries of pleasure-pain, fingers dug under armors, pried the plating apart, grasped and clawed at mechanics underneath.
Ports sparked with charge, plugs tingled with data, circuits humming with need to connect.
As cables linked, blast of electrifying signals made their optics reset , pleasure sparking over their circuits.
They bit and tore at their firewalls crushing them down with abandon. The link surging over the paths and circuits burning with lust and passion seeking more.
Their quivering data-streams thrummed in their lines - explosion of information choking them at the start of interface program.
Screaming with transfer, high capacity circuits burned at every thrust and pull of the stream, at ever lash of the signal, impact of file.
Paths sparked, frames burning, fans working until their processors overheated, and burst with explosion of signals, files and face data washing their systems white with painful pleasure of overload.
Program disengaged and frames pinging with cooling metal they reworked their firewalls, still sore from the joining.
No questions asked, no answers given, with armors scrapped dented and sparks lighter than ever, they left.
They knew that they were wanted, desired, appreciated for who they really were, not Primes, but mechs themselves.
For once there were no titles, no duties; just Optimus and Hot Rod, two mechs that run away from their responsibilities for a night for themselves.
Now they were sitting in the dark, and probably filthy, booth of some ding bar of lower Cybertron staring at each other - systems hot with high-grade and desire induced overcharge.
They stumbled into the room they booked - no questions asked, no answers given.
There was nothing gentle in the way their hands groped - demanding more, kisses insatiable and hard, denta grazing against pliant metal.
Between snarls, growls and cries of pleasure-pain, fingers dug under armors, pried the plating apart, grasped and clawed at mechanics underneath.
Ports sparked with charge, plugs tingled with data, circuits humming with need to connect.
As cables linked, blast of electrifying signals made their optics reset , pleasure sparking over their circuits.
They bit and tore at their firewalls crushing them down with abandon. The link surging over the paths and circuits burning with lust and passion seeking more.
Their quivering data-streams thrummed in their lines - explosion of information choking them at the start of interface program.
Screaming with transfer, high capacity circuits burned at every thrust and pull of the stream, at ever lash of the signal, impact of file.
Paths sparked, frames burning, fans working until their processors overheated, and burst with explosion of signals, files and face data washing their systems white with painful pleasure of overload.
Program disengaged and frames pinging with cooling metal they reworked their firewalls, still sore from the joining.
No questions asked, no answers given, with armors scrapped dented and sparks lighter than ever, they left.
They knew that they were wanted, desired, appreciated for who they really were, not Primes, but mechs themselves.