#sg deepstrider

I think he does, somewhere, have a little hidden stash of engex. He tops it up when he can, but he's got taste most of the time, so the majority of his stuff is old enough to have been properly refined. It makes him ration it out. Remember when he kidnapped took care of you? He's been holding onto that shit longer than some people's entire lives.

So he's really gotta be in the right mood to pull it out. He just.. gets all vulnerable and easy. He says harsher things before he knows what he's saying, and his spike struggles to get hard. You've probably barely seen him drunk before the war, and you were his longest relationship.

Deepstrider is a hoarder of a dubious kind. His supplies lack in certain areas, and are suspiciously well stocked in others. He has, like, three transformation cogs rolling around in a box somewhere. An entire carton of cygars he doesn't smoke. Baby bottles.

Since he practically only fucks around and gets drunk by himself, and he doesn't actually want to drink enough of his engex to get proper drunk, the mech does some really unsafe shit and pairs it with sedatives or something. Do you think his medic gives a frag? HA, he's not going to 'his' medic until his frame is grey!

Mostly, he just crashes. Not literally, as he does avoid driving under the influence, but his processor tries to figure out what the slag is wrong with him and stacks diagnostics doing it. The load can get heavy when they just.. loop. Optics resetting and memory defragging while way too conscious has some curious effects.

So if he's not listening to the radio and quietly sitting in a corner, he's probably crawled into berth. It's a bit of a mess, cushions and a tarp or two littering the surface, a pen that keeps sliding off the windowsill and ending up shoved into the spokes of one of his tires. His work station is unfortunately much of the same, personal projects scattered between actual reports.

Deepstrider in general is a mech that 100% humps pillows. SG! Deepstrider, engex upping his already alarming sensors and something undoubtedly restricted making him drowsy, is so sensitive. Rubbing his servos on one of his soft tarps is comfortable, he leans into his pillows like a cat and shoves his face into them while his shifting has him constantly touching something.

When snippets of your voice start slipping into his audials while his processor is trying to look for logs, his first reaction is fear. He's alone and so weak, it runs nausea up his fuel pump.

But.. mm. You aren't really raising your voice, are you? If he tilts his head right, maybe it's even a little soft. He's dry under his panel, but he gets a bit warmer. Thinking about you just goes wrong. He can't unmix the memories of your valve or firm lipplates from the phantom sensation of his leg- he has his leg, right?

The ghost of your claws graze over his armor, and he has his servos on his tits before he knows what he's doing. They fill his servos, sag to either side of his chest when he lies supline, and he quivers and whines when he pulls on the metal hoops in his nozzles.

It feels so, so good when his helm is numb to everything else like this. His vision might as well blur a few strides away from him, his hearing muddled and smell corrupted. There's nothing to taste until he sucks one of his servos into his mouth. Another, and he's trying to fuck his throat like you do. He's too big and clunky to get that far, intake spreading wetly and mindless drool connecting to them when he pulls then out.

Deepstrider just puts his now wet servos back on his tits and pants happily. Just pushing his pouches back and worth is making his piercings shift and oversensitizing the protoform until his panel is leaking. He flops his bent legs open to other side in an 'M' and snaps his panel, but it just reveals his soft spike poking out of its housing and puts an air current on his furiously warming valve that makes him nearly sob.

Frag, he wants you to touch him so bad, but his sensory network just keeps offering pain to layer over the overwhelming heat burning in his chassis. There's pleasure somewhere, right?

But he's just got the memory of blinking down at the knife through his hand. Running- trying to lose your lead and crawling away when he got knocked of off his pedes.

Deepstrider doesn't like remembering what happened to his leg. It was too neat to be a coincidence. You'd planned it. But at least he remembered your servos pressing into his plating, that calculating tone..

He's got delusional fantasies of you beating his array until it makes him shriek, and overloading inside of him, pumping all of your charge into his gestation tank. He's rubbing his thighs together and pulling on his piercings when he comes back to awareness.

It's his claws digging into his plating, but he's deluded into it being yours, each stripe of pain or bead of energon yours. His palms are dark, trembling, and pink.

When he flops over, he stains the berth with his wounds, but a little shuffling has his valve getting pressed into sweet, sweet release.

Maybe his helm cracks into the berth with a noise alarming and an expression so loose you couldn't mistake him for anything but high. There wasn't any need to raise his arms, to leverage up again..

With enough softness stuffed between his legs, all he haf to do was move his hips a little bit. Just a little bit, and he'd get all kinds of fun pleasure in return. All of the energy he hadn't been using goes into scraping paint of his knee edges and rocking his waist.

His node is screaming, buzzing, but it feels so so so so so so so so so good fuck fuck fuck- He's gonna overload and get his pillow all wet.

Being disappointed in him won't stop that he's done it. He's willing to risk an eerie amount to pretend that you still love him. Maybe you were rattled by everything too. Don't you deserve to be a little selfish after everything this war took from you?

It wasn't a bad time, at least. You can spit that out as a consolation prize. Recovering in his outpost, Deepstrider certainly kept your spike wet. Usually, he'd swap out as his stamina rose or fell if he was going to interface more than once, but the mech had kept his spike tucked away inside its housing for what felt like a Primus-damned marathon.

You'd been completely disinterested in fragging the mad mech the first first few days. And he probably wouldn't have, anyways, giving you careful sutures. Some sense was still knocking around in the back of his helm. Once you could sit up on your own without the assistance of a painkiller improvised out of a shot of engex and a careful quarter chunk of a pill Deepstrider probably shouldn't have had, he started his shy act up.

You let him kiss you and groped his scarred up tits. Then you rolled back into what was probably Deepstrider's berth and hit the slab. You didn't need to be conscious for at least a cycle after that disaster.

The autobot, as far as you could tell, hadn't left at all during the interm. You couldn't tell if it was because he genuinely didn't want to leave you alone with his equipment, or because leaving the outpost had the ever so slim chance of- oh, I don't know, an open window for you to get the frag out of there?

You'd accepted his advances out of annoyance after that. Watching him trying to stumble around asking was one thing, the nervous tics he gathered as you didn't interface morbidly revealing of what you had been using him for in the past few years.

His spark stuttered in your palms while tears dried over his face, and your own spark barely intersected with his. It was like looking like at dry lightning trapped in a bottle; searing your optics, and yet so incredibly fascinating. It'd always been twisting to its own desires, and having all of that attention poured on you was like being suddenly pulled into the riptide.

There wasn't any choice but to accept it or to drown.

You'd tugged him into your chassis and scrubbed the tears off his face with your lipplates, far too vulnerable. Your corona meshing with his like that made him overload and keep overloading. His frame seized up and he tried to grind into your thigh to ground it out somewhere.

Pulling him onto your aching spike instead left it rattling through your array as well, far more intense than you'd expected. He just kept bucking underneath you, jerking his helm around and kicking his pedes out without his frame's say-so. You would've had to be a much bigger, stronger mech to absorb the kickback and not spray his insides pink.

Neither of you had touched your sparks for millenia, honestly. It was a moment more manic than not. Everything after that was mild in comparison. Deepstrider tugged his thighs towards his bumper and begged you to help him. You didn't know why it'd hit him so hard, maybe some consequence of deprivation, possibly an effect of his tumultuous charge.

You were smaller than him, but you didn't feel like that holding your servos under his knees and slamming your spike into his trembling valve. Leveraged on top of him, you could practically see the last remnants of spare protoform he had rolling into each other as you folded his belly.

He was a filthy fucking schemer. The overloads weren't fake, that was for sure, but he'd milked your transfluid reservoirs like each drop was worth more than gold. You'd taken the fuel he'd given you warily (but begrudgingly grateful) and Deepstrider did his best to wring every drop out again as deep inside his pussy as he could get you.

Your legs shaked more from the strain of fragging him up against a wall than the exhaustion of healing. He'd just left his panel open right in front of you. (And maybe you should've wondered why he just had his panel open in front of you).

He let you leave, which was the surprising part. But not without showering you in platitudes that you instantly forgot. Perhaps there was something more off with his improv painkiller than probably being stolen out of a surgical theater.

When his comm code showed up in your HUD, months later- not too unusual, it'd been a picture of some very familiar nozzles leaking.

Ah.

Why would you? Your faction needed you far more than some grounder spiraling into insanity. Visiting Deepstrider was a process in itself so that nothing killed you, and the rewards grew less tempting. Decepticon morale didn't suddenly jump if you knew when the next acid rains were going to hit. Trying to look through any of his call logs was more productive, but he'd be following you like an eager puppy every minute that he was conscious.

And you didn't want to be unconscious around him. Deepstrider didn't have a notable kill count. What he did have was a list of inflicted injuries a mile long and the sadistic streak of someone pushing on buttons just to see what would happen. He was better than Ratchet by leagues, but that Primus-damned 'medic' was the most terrifying pile of scrap metal on this side of the planet.

He'd told you he wouldn't do that to you. Not on purpose.

While he recharged, he opened his berth to you without a second thought and let you touch him. You've touched him in significantly worse ways. But even just using him for his array was dulling. Wrapping a hand around his throat cables.. finally dragging your claws through that energon line hiding behind its mesh.. it'd be so easy. But you weren't an autobot.

You crawled out and scoured his consoles instead. He locked them, wasn't so careless as to leave any sort of password around, but Soundwave was accommodating in getting what you needed to ignore things like that. If you trawled indiscriminately, it'd be footage and radar readouts, short, aggressive messages sent through satellite so they couldn't kill each other tracking their comm codes down- and when you did find audio logs, it'd be storms.

Hours of storms. The haunting whistle of the air, rumbling clouds. Some of them were from earth- car alarms going off while trees crashed into the ground, the sickening crack of foundations. Thunder. It was worse when they were dead quiet, sometimes- Deepstrider had been entertained enough to tell you what that meant.

Right there in the epicenter. No way out. Surrounded on every side by whatever force had swung through- it could linger there for days. The eye. It meant that somewhere in these undefined pauses, this was just- a break. Worse than that.

You didn't want to make anyone listen to those. Not for something they wouldn't find. It was easier to look for Deepstrider's notes, whatever he found interesting, but it was shorthand and sentence fragments. 'X @ GB.' 'PEAfire N w/ R C50'. He had different priorities, too. Mostly not getting killed, which was a common goal.

These days, you only really had engex when something was going wrong. Dead mechs. The world falling in on itself behind you. You needed a certain amount spare for refining, and whatever fuel value it had burnt out quicker than a proper meal.

Drinking with Deepstrider meant having a mech too big for such a thing curling into your chassis, trying to sprawl across your lap and letting his engine purr like it'd make him seem less like a ticking time bomb. He'd spike you, at least, played sweet and traced his glossa on yours. Refilled your cube a bit whenever you set it down.

By the time it'd burned you out, where else were you supposed to go? The buzz replaced the unease that'd usually be there when Deepstrider tossed a tarp over you and rested his helm on your shoulder. Coerce your frame into holding him, if you were bigger. It's a bit depressing how much he just wants you to touch him without violence.

Is the way you frag him violence? Maybe that isn't something you should ponder right now, pump aching and optics stinging. Waking up with another mech is.. strange. Maybe you're used to being tactile, had friends or lovers that didn't instill dread in you to sleep with. Maybe it's just completely foreign.

Half his plating is missing while he sleeps, so there's pouches in your servos and a soft, dry valve leaning into a leg. You could let yourself thumb them for a moment, maybe. Look at him like this.. but it'd just be a mirage of a mech you'd know is much worse than the picture besides you.

And your helm is pounding, for one. The idea of getting up sounds exhausting. Your fuel gauge is whining about being full and empty simultaneously, which probably means your pump is just dead weight. The heat of Deepstrider almost feels good until you shift a bit too far and just feel miserable again.

It doesn't last. You don't know if you should feel grateful when you go offline again.

There's fuel, this time- actual fuel, not watered down narcotics or Deepstrider's fragged up little lithium strips- why he puts those in his mouth is a mystery you haven't solved.

As much of a relief as it is, you still ache. Your optics come online concerningly late, but the light level in the room is at least duller than you're used to. When you register the ceiling above your helm, there's servos wiping away at your intake to catch spilled energon. And red optics. Armored up again-

Deepstrider still thinks it was worth all the trouble when you vomit. He's had worse substances than this on his plating- voluntarily, even.

It's just- you don't actually give a frag. Autobot or decepticon- Deepstrider's just an easy piece of fuckmeat. If you know where he holes up, it's as simple as telling him you're on your way for him to scramble to send you like three different pass codes and a route that won't get your helm smashed into pieces. He doesn't actually want you hurt- not if you're coming to him voluntarily.

He's got a nice spike, for an autobot grunt. It ruts into your servos with skittish thrusts and can probably fill you burst to aching when it's inflated, if you aren't a semi truck or something. You take a few captures of what's going on with his monitors to send back to base as an excuse for why you're out- if you even care. It's been useful once or twice, but whenever Deepstrider chats about it, it just goes in one audial and out the other.

Hooking your thumb into his mouth, pulling it aside shows off the four blunt canines in his mouth and his silvery glossa. He got a bit too used to kisses, and now you're gonna get him used to having his mouth full. Really, you're almost being generous here.

Listening to him choke on your servos is so much better than all that jabber, and he gets the pleasure of your company, which is all he really wants. The chair at the monitors is his, but you splay yourself out in it anyways. Deepstrider looks just fine on his knees, and he mistakes that for a compliment instead of a fact when you tell him.

Whether you shove his faceplates into your valve or rub your spike against his face, you've got one hand over a bulky audial to discourage him from doing any moving away.

Once his mouth is put to work, you can just sit back with your legs lazily spread open and bob his head up and down on your array with your hand. If you close your optics, it's nearly soothing.

You have to grab his other audial and force his helm straight in order to overload in him. Drooling through his dentae, Deepstrider whines when you dig your thumbs into the corners of his intake so he can't bite. Intake to array, you bury him in the mess. It's easiest with a spike down his throat, just a matter of pulling far enough to make your transfluid spill over his glossa. Deepstrider gags and shakes.

The past three visits went just the same, so you really don't think he has any right to be surprised. He was the one who told you about it, so obviously you should help him get rid of his aversion to the taste. At least yours, if nothing else.

Petting his helm is more pity than any actual sympathy. You just want to get your servos on the rest of him.

Plating with his pouches could be fun, but you didn't really get anything out of it besides something to squeeze. With the rationing going on in practically every faction, he didn't have more than a few drops of energon to spare. You'd made a habit earlier in the war of latching onto his nozzles and draining him dry whenever they weighed anything. What was he supposed to do with it?

Maybe if you needed to relax, you'd knead his refineries. Or go lower and grab him by the waist. There wasn't any extra give to play with, but he was still pretty soft.

Deepstrider, mostly, just learned to be happy when you slammed your spike inside of him without a thought for his pleasure. Plating scraping against the berth, a nice, lonely hole to stuff full, and you could cut off his babble by pressing your servos into his neck and making sure to squeeze.

He only clenched down on you tighter, paid attention to the fact that you were touching him, had come all this way to touch him. It didn't matter how. Even after everything- after--

You still loved him, is what he deliriously told himself.

You still cared, a chant while he rode you, rocking back and forth while you just watched him.

You came back, his servos climbing up your frame, his glossa worshipping your panel, his spike jutting into the air.

You need him, you whisper, and that's the meanest lie of them all. Deepstrider curls into your side, ignores the twitch in his servos and the yawning ache in his leg, because you hadn't left just yet.

Shattered glass Deepstrider would probably babytrap you, to be honest. He always wanted to be left alone until you. Please don't leave him. If you defected, he'd break down. He's not the most talented, but there's no real motive for anyone to kill him besides for fun, and SG!Deepstrider has a tiny little tendency to lead people into traps.

Terrible little mech. If you got caught by one of them, he wouldn't tell you they were his. He'd play nice, patch you up. If you were really injured, he could pay the price to bring you to an actual doc. Deepstrider doesn't want to hurt you again, so could you just.. stay a while? He could keep you updated and tell you what's going on. He might even let you go back to the decepticons if you're really convincing.

Logistically speaking, you can know that your delusional (ex?)conjunx is one of the very few autobots who wouldn't kill you in your recharge and scrap your frame for parts. It doesn't make you feel even a little safer with him. Deepstrider has buried mechs alive, covered in their energon, only to snuggle into your berth and stuff his helm into the crook of your shoulder.

Maybe you loved him once. Maybe it was desperation, seeking an outlet. Deepstrider had been so fragile, so clingy. He stuck to you like a limpet until you forced him to develop a sense of independence. He had one, apparently. But he'd shelved it with his sense when the war left Cybertron. He'd survived this long in the autobots, somehow. You guess you never really questioned it.

When you'd broken his spark and didn't come back to pick up the pieces, he mistook that ache for longing. You could fill the hollow feeling in his chassis, right?

He won't force you, but it's difficult managing his charge alone. Deepstrider never has good ways to get rid of it other than frying his own servos or miraculously managing to find a quick frag. Since setting up shop by himself with his radars, it'd just been himself and whatever unfortunate mech wandered by. He'll suck your spike, eat your valve, let you shoot your load down his throat no matter how much he hates it, if you'll touch him.

You're only mortal. You remembered how he wailed, the weight of his spike and the way he leaned into every touch you gave him. You don't want to consider why you're so hard when you let your spike kiss his folds. The mech melts into you, and the sensation of his plating on yours is uncomfortably familiar.

Even as his vocals warble with static and his optics light up with electric tears, Deepstrider doesn't let his hips pause riding you. He doesn't want it to end, he doesn't want you to leave again. He humps into you needy when he's too tired to bounce himself up and down anymore.

It's nothing out of character when he crams your arrays together when you overload. He's always been intense like this, trying to get every millimeter of you inside of him.

If you've got a smaller spike, he's on that thing, he loves to overload on it. It always fits inside. He's says it's cute, and while you give him a strange look, the haze in his optics and glossa running over his lipplates is probably just another manic thing.

If you're big, too big, it's something he's been constantly working towards. He'll make you fit. You have to fit. Whining, rocking back and forth on a stubborn few inches, there's an itch in the back of your processor whispering that all you'd need to do is hold him steady and thrust upwards until his optics fail and his vocalizer strangles itself so harshly he can't scream.

If his valve is a little wetter than it was beforehand, you can blame it on arousal instead of confronting the energon streaking your spike. Ha. Haaah, you broke his pussy. But you're in him. You fit now.

Deepstrider aches, feels the blunt-sharp pain of you inside of him, but he's enamored with the bulge curving his chassis. Why would you break him if you didn't want to keep him?

Yeah.. you want him, obviously. He's convinced himself of that.

Either way, you've mostly chalked it up to him being a generally weird mech. Recovering with him is awkward. Honestly, you just want to get out of here.

-And that's okay! Deepstrider's definitely fine with that. He won't have another breakdown or anything. But.. please. Give him another spiking? It's been so long, he wants to remember what the corona of your spark feels like. You can tie him up if you really don't trust him.

He'll stop pulling delay tactics on all your buddies, and you can go home after you knock him up. He can play nice.

He could be a civilian. You could picture him as one. Back on Earth, maybe. Sitting next to you and eating snacks that didn't suit your pallette, debating how clouds formed on your homeworld and this world. Maybe he didn't care about the people, but the knowledge he scrounged up for his own amusement- that could go somewhere.

The meteorologist. Scout. Communications relay.. it was all looking outwards, for him. And he kept you clutched so closely to his chest that'd he never give you his undivided attention.

He said that he did, beckoned you constantly, and watched you when you did appear. He let you hurt him, touch him, and wanted you to. But neither of you spoke enough words to each other to really communicate that you felt trapped. You'd rather be bleeding on your friends than in a quiet no man's land where a spectre who wouldn't stop haunting you urged you to kiss him. Make love to him. Please.

Hurting him wasn't enough to dissuade him, and that instilled a certain kind of sickness in you. Maybe he wanted to be alive, but for what?

Your sparkling is a pale thing, growing kibble that flares from their helm like an all-seeing corona. They grip your servos with a familiar intensity. Deepstrider is quieter than a ghost when they sleep, staring out a window layered with mesh to hide its shape while someone so, so, so much more important than him fills his blood stained arms.

He's the one who said that. He's the one who turns his optics off and reroutes his fuel to reserves, even if it leaves his tank pinging. You've heard of carriage instilling a type of depression in a carrier afterward. A manic intensity or a numbness to being alive. Partners were important because that all too often came paired with neglect. Deepstrider was.. hesitant. He reconsidered. Mindlessly following orders to do this, probably die doing that- he'd pulled up a flip book of favors owed to him, leverage he'd collected first for fun.

His grip on your hand was loose. He'd sought you out only once or twice after emergence for pleasure, your hands, mostly. After leaving, putting yourself into reserves, you mostly occupied yourself quietly disabling the most cruel of Deepstrider's traps and sorting his files together. He disinfected vigorously.

You'd assumed he didn't use his filing cabinets much due to laziness, maybe his constant distraction, but sliding them open was.. overwhelming. Full of tapes, data pads, hard memory disks in protective sleeves and maps that'd been folded and taped back together.

Anything paper, organic, was colored with age. The sheets he did carve were mostly summaries. Sometimes it'd just be a USB with five-hundred photos of a super storm that made you feel miniscule.

Deepstrider had other interests, and you'd consumed them. This is what he did when you didn't consume his thoughts. It was.. normal. Relatively. Peaceful.

But he wouldn't change in a way that mattered to you. Wouldn't leave the autobots, wouldn't leave his little dead sanctuary, wouldn't let reality invade his helm.

As long as that little piece of pale starlight was held in his arms, slept in his home, fed by his breast, he sunk into something softer.

You'd need to do something. Drag him out. Let him get killed. Take his Polaris. Tell him.

Cuteness aggression is.. yeah, I can see that. If you've got the frame to manhandle him with, he'll be a bit startled, but ultimately, probably not struggle.

You might have to reconsider specifically beating him up and stealing his money because he himself doesn't know how much shanix he has. It used to be simple enough, and he didn't mind putting the effort in, but a lot of tasks fell to the wayside, and that was just one of them. He smooches up to people for new equipment.

If you hold him while you do it, you could practically tear his plating off with your denta. Dig your servos into his protoform hard enough to leave bruises. Slap him around the faceplates a little. Mm. You could kick his panel in, and he'd probably start getting off on it. If you put enough focus on him, do it carefully, you could probably do something a bit meaner.

And none of that has to get you off at all, just satisfy that itch in your head when you look at him. It's a twisted type of affection you'd suppress if he was any other mech. But playing with his softer pieces, hrnghhh. If you had some little claws, just a mod for emergencies, really, you could do so much with those. Mm, but I'm specifically picturing like- pinching and pulling on his nozzles like you normally do but your servos are digging in so m-much more and- ha, don't pinch them so tightly like that, what if your claws went through?

Just leaving streaks of energon over his breasts, his thighs.. digging wounds into his waist, trying to hold him down when he instinctively jerks. If SG Deepstrider's pouches are soft n floppy and empty all the time, surely you can find a better use for them. Whether than be using him like an ashtray if you smoke, just kneading them for fun and stress relief, maybe decorating them with some cute little hoops or bars?