Sticky Response Pt 3
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Stories that were started here continue here.
FIC: Continuity - Title (optional) - Characters - brief Kink (please include the entire thing on every part you post and for every comment!) and put Ch# or Pt# at the end. Note any major squicks or kinks in the header as a courtesy to the ( Read more... )
Stories that were started here continue here.
FIC: Continuity - Title (optional) - Characters - brief Kink (please include the entire thing on every part you post and for every comment!) and put Ch# or Pt# at the end. Note any major squicks or kinks in the header as a courtesy to the ( Read more... )
The three young mechs named slumped, groaning amid the chuckles of their elders as the nuns dispersed. The Core of the world trial always took a while. The small daily tasks of the convent were not to be put off, and the sun was rising. Prowl and Jazz posted themselves as guards at the shaft entrance.
“You were seen on the rooftops,” the Magnus began, once they had reached the sparsely appointed cell high in the northeastern wing that served as office, meditation chamber and recharge berth. He activated a simple screen with the damning security playback. “Again.”
Hot Rod shuttered his optics. “The shields were up. What harm-?”
“The Seekers are harmless now, are they?”
“No, but…” Hot Rod thought of the one time the shields had not been up. There had been a small explosion (Wheeljack) in the main power junction, which had taken seven or eight breems to repair. He - they - had been lucky it was only Thundercracker that time. The vivid blue Seeker had transformed to his sleek bipedal form, watching the trembling young nuns with more thoughtfulness than the open desire the Seekers usually displayed. He had even landed, opening his mouth to speak; but before an alarm could sound, or the forcefields rise, he had transformed and jetted away, the sound of his engines a low, powerful rumble that still haunted Hot Rod’s recharge cycles.
“Are not the rituals of hand and eye enough for you?” Magnus was going on. “They have served us well enough these past gigavorns.”
Blurr and Drift shifted nervously. They knew better than to giggle, but their face plates heated. Touching oneself with hands was permitted. Watching another touch himself was also permitted. The seals over spike and valve were to remain unbreached, however, until the appearance of the True Matrix-Bearer. Nor was kissing allowed, or penetrating the mouth of another with fingers or any other insertable implement. The rules governing the chastity of the Solian Order were there to promote discipline, devotion, focus, blah blah blah, sacred trust, blah blah, fellowship of their community. Whatever.
And Seekers were so slagging gorgeous. Couldn’t they at least watch them fly?
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Drift looked faintly ill. Of the three, he showed the most proficiency in attaining certain levels of meditation. He could sometimes overload without any tactile stimulation; falling into ecstasy through the evocation of Primus alone.
“If this Optimus Prime turns out to be the True Bearer,” said Hot Rod, chin jutting, “then we won’t have long to wait.” Blurr stared resolutely at the ceiling.
“That has yet to be determined,” Ultra Magnus said coolly. “Carrying the Matrix and Bearing are not the same. I trust you have not forgotten Sentinel.”
“No, Magnus,” the three answered in unison.
“I suggest you spend the next six groons in sincere contemplation of your personal relationships with Primus. Dismissed.”
.oOo0oOo.
The shaft was so narrow and straight and smooth, Optimus was tempted to let himself slide down, braking with pressure from shoulders and knees. But without his armor, that could prove a painful option. He climbed. Down and down. Below the level of the plain, he suspected, though his senses continued to give him unreliable data.
He firewalled the steady, mocking progress of his chronometer. Patience now, gambling on an outcome that would save the resistance. They were fighting on two fronts; against the old, established order, and Megatron’s violent former gladiator and rebel military forces. Ironhide thought he was crazy, but Optimus’ spark and CPU told him he needed the Order. He had always been good at drawing useful, if astonishing, conclusions from wildly disparate datastreams. How was recruiting a group of fighting virgins any weirder than a librarian finding himself the leader of a radical militia? And the bearer of the Matrix. It pulsed within him, warm and reassuring.
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