FIC: The Number You Have Dialed (Transformers)
Title: The Number You Have Dialed
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Transformers: Bayverse
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Sam/Bumblebee
Notes: This was written, sort of, for the Perv Pack Smut Shack's most recent Pervy Picspiration Challenge. Only, it's not for the Twilight fandom so, not really. I just couldn't resist doing my own after looking over the pictures. This isn't really based off of any of the pictures, but hey, I was inspired *G* I may possibly work up the nerve to drop 'em a note about it but barring that, you guys can enjoy and I can have my fun. These are the things I do when I'm on vacation. ^_^
Summary: Much to Sam's dismay, college is actually boring. It's a good thing Bumblebee is his boyfriend...er...kind of.
There was no way around it. Much as Sam didn't want to believe it could be so, he had to accept it as a fact. College was boring.
Not that he could really blame college for failing to live up to his expectations. Once he'd started spending his off-hours with alien robots, somehow the keggers that he'd wistfully imagined weren't nearly as awesome, the boobs he thought he'd be seeing (and touching, pleasepleaseplease) weren't nearly as entrancing, and he'd practically moved to the Autobot base his last year of high school where it had been proven to him with regrettable certainty that beings that don't eat also can't cook, so he was used to living on his own, barely more edible, cooking.
Been there, done that, had the 'I Saved the World Twice' t-shirt. He'd long since faced the crushing truth that the real world had no handbook and sudden knowledge didn't appear at eighteen. But somehow, in the midst of a giddy bout of post-survived-certain-death insanity, Sam had decided he really needed to get his degree. None of his so-called alien friends had had the sense to talk him out of it…or, well, Sam figured a couple of them weren't even sure exactly what college was, but still. Bumblebee could have given it a shot.
Instead, they had been all kinds of supportive and nurturing in plenty of nauseatingly helpful ways. Giving him rides, helping with his homework. Or trying to, seriously, what the hell did aliens know about American History? Plus, Ironhide was entirely too fond of Wikipedia to be any real help and spent half the time he was supposed to be helping Sam messing up other entries.
Bumblebee was unhelpful in his own way. Not that Sam was going to protest his assertion that blowjobs were an excellent destressor, and Sam never thought he'd be saying this, not in his haziest nightmares, but on very rare occasions, sleep was more important than getting it on with sexy holograms.
That left him here, in American History 102. Head resting on one hand, more than half-asleep while his pen was making a lazy trail from his last word down the paper for the third time. Having his cell chirp out a few happy notes startled him back awake, to the point he almost fell out of his chair. Unfortunately, it also worked on the rest of the class and he gave his new collection of dirty looks and stares a feeble smile of apology.
When everyone was back to their apathetic daze, the professor droning on, Sam gingerly picked up his phone to check the text message. Playing on his phone in class probably wasn't going to help his grade but since some of his text messages were less of the 'chk this out, lol' and more of the, 'OMG, run,' variety, he was willing to chance it.
It took a second for the picture to actually trickle through the sleepiness into his cerebral cortex. Long enough that the girl sitting next to him glanced over and promptly choked.
When it finally smacked into his brain exactly what he was looking at, Sam physically jolted, his phone going from innocent technology to a clumsy projectile as it squirted out of his fumbling grip. With helpless resignation, he watched it bounce down the stairs and skitter across the room and it could only be the grace of God, or maybe Primus, that the battery was headed in the other direction so no one else was treated to a visual of his most recent text.
Less helpful was when his phone finally skidded to a stop two inches from his professor's foot. Well, couldn't win them all.
For the second time in as many minutes, everyone in the class was looking at him and Sam could only give them a feeble shrug. Come to a lecture hall with him and get a free show.
"Mr. Witwicky, perhaps you feel that your choice of smartphones is somehow pertinent to the rise of sectionalist disputes during the Civil War?" his professor asked archly.
"No. I mean, no…uh, sorry," Sam stumbled down the stairs, his own personal walk of shame, to gather up the remains of his phone. Good thing he'd upgraded to a Cybertronian model; he didn't think Motorola designed a phone that could take the kind of abuse he put them through. He snatched up the phone first, battery second, and almost tripped over his own feet trying to go two directions at once. Again, somehow he was spared that extra bit of humiliation, the class silent and watchful as he made his way back up to his seat.
For a few minutes, Sam was the perfect model of diligent student, taking well-detailed notes with the enthusiasm of one who was engrossed in the Civil War and just couldn't wait until the next lecture to hear a few more funny antidotes about Lincoln that he didn't understand
But his cell just sat on the desk next to him, imploring him to slide the battery back in, to power it on, touch its little buttons and stroke his finger over the touchscreen and make his way inside, back to the text messages.
With the same desperate care a person used when defusing a bomb, Sam clicked the battery in then went back to his note-taking while he waited for it to power up.
Carefully, so carefully, he tapped the text icon and again, that picture filled the screen.
Holy fucked up Jesus.
It was a damned good thing that his boyfriend was an alien robot because if he'd been human, he would have needed at least three people with whom he was on exceptionally good terms with to tie him up like that. Bumblebee's holoform was on the floor, his knees drawn up under him but it was lines of black wrapped around him that drew Sam's gaze, dark against his pale, bare skin. It took him a moment to recognize what it was, followed the corkscrewed cable down, around, until it ended at an old style telephone.
A phone cord, Sam realized, had to be the longest one in existence, there were yards of it. Loops of it were around Bumblebee's arms and down his legs to end at his tightly wrapped ankles. His wrists bound behind him, just above the smooth curve of his ass where it arched invitingly into the air. He was facing the camera, eyes closed, and his lips soft pink and parted, visibly damp even at this resolution. His face was turned just a little into the floor where his cheek was pressed, his blond hair spilling across the floor like a halo. A contrast of innocence and obscenity and the handset was on the floor, the mouthpiece not quite touching Bee's soft lips.
Fuck, it was more like looking at a work of art than porn. Not that Sam's dick agreed, it was pretty sure this fell on the porn side of the equation and was currently straining against his zipper, like it was planning on taking off without him in search of a piece of that.
Sam blinked a little, trying to swallow a little spit back into his dry mouth and almost automatically, he drew his thumb down the phone's screen, scrolling down. Beneath the picture was one sentence.
Bumblebee: Hope you aren't too bored.
Call me when you get a chance. ;-D
A last, lingering look at that picture and Sam regretfully closed it, glanced at the time on his phone's main menu. Class had forty-five minutes left, and Sam had to sit here, pretending to take notes and faking enthusiastic interest in the Civil War.
No way around it. College was absolutely fucking boring but his boyfriend wasn't and tomorrow in Com Lit 125, he was going to be falling asleep and drooling on his notes. Sam just knew it.
Tonight, though. It wasn't a kegger and there weren't going to be boobs involved at all but Sam was willing to bet he wasn't going to be bored.
Not even a little.
-finis-
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Transformers: Bayverse
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Sam/Bumblebee
Notes: This was written, sort of, for the Perv Pack Smut Shack's most recent Pervy Picspiration Challenge. Only, it's not for the Twilight fandom so, not really. I just couldn't resist doing my own after looking over the pictures. This isn't really based off of any of the pictures, but hey, I was inspired *G* I may possibly work up the nerve to drop 'em a note about it but barring that, you guys can enjoy and I can have my fun. These are the things I do when I'm on vacation. ^_^
Summary: Much to Sam's dismay, college is actually boring. It's a good thing Bumblebee is his boyfriend...er...kind of.
There was no way around it. Much as Sam didn't want to believe it could be so, he had to accept it as a fact. College was boring.
Not that he could really blame college for failing to live up to his expectations. Once he'd started spending his off-hours with alien robots, somehow the keggers that he'd wistfully imagined weren't nearly as awesome, the boobs he thought he'd be seeing (and touching, pleasepleaseplease) weren't nearly as entrancing, and he'd practically moved to the Autobot base his last year of high school where it had been proven to him with regrettable certainty that beings that don't eat also can't cook, so he was used to living on his own, barely more edible, cooking.
Been there, done that, had the 'I Saved the World Twice' t-shirt. He'd long since faced the crushing truth that the real world had no handbook and sudden knowledge didn't appear at eighteen. But somehow, in the midst of a giddy bout of post-survived-certain-death insanity, Sam had decided he really needed to get his degree. None of his so-called alien friends had had the sense to talk him out of it…or, well, Sam figured a couple of them weren't even sure exactly what college was, but still. Bumblebee could have given it a shot.
Instead, they had been all kinds of supportive and nurturing in plenty of nauseatingly helpful ways. Giving him rides, helping with his homework. Or trying to, seriously, what the hell did aliens know about American History? Plus, Ironhide was entirely too fond of Wikipedia to be any real help and spent half the time he was supposed to be helping Sam messing up other entries.
Bumblebee was unhelpful in his own way. Not that Sam was going to protest his assertion that blowjobs were an excellent destressor, and Sam never thought he'd be saying this, not in his haziest nightmares, but on very rare occasions, sleep was more important than getting it on with sexy holograms.
That left him here, in American History 102. Head resting on one hand, more than half-asleep while his pen was making a lazy trail from his last word down the paper for the third time. Having his cell chirp out a few happy notes startled him back awake, to the point he almost fell out of his chair. Unfortunately, it also worked on the rest of the class and he gave his new collection of dirty looks and stares a feeble smile of apology.
When everyone was back to their apathetic daze, the professor droning on, Sam gingerly picked up his phone to check the text message. Playing on his phone in class probably wasn't going to help his grade but since some of his text messages were less of the 'chk this out, lol' and more of the, 'OMG, run,' variety, he was willing to chance it.
It took a second for the picture to actually trickle through the sleepiness into his cerebral cortex. Long enough that the girl sitting next to him glanced over and promptly choked.
When it finally smacked into his brain exactly what he was looking at, Sam physically jolted, his phone going from innocent technology to a clumsy projectile as it squirted out of his fumbling grip. With helpless resignation, he watched it bounce down the stairs and skitter across the room and it could only be the grace of God, or maybe Primus, that the battery was headed in the other direction so no one else was treated to a visual of his most recent text.
Less helpful was when his phone finally skidded to a stop two inches from his professor's foot. Well, couldn't win them all.
For the second time in as many minutes, everyone in the class was looking at him and Sam could only give them a feeble shrug. Come to a lecture hall with him and get a free show.
"Mr. Witwicky, perhaps you feel that your choice of smartphones is somehow pertinent to the rise of sectionalist disputes during the Civil War?" his professor asked archly.
"No. I mean, no…uh, sorry," Sam stumbled down the stairs, his own personal walk of shame, to gather up the remains of his phone. Good thing he'd upgraded to a Cybertronian model; he didn't think Motorola designed a phone that could take the kind of abuse he put them through. He snatched up the phone first, battery second, and almost tripped over his own feet trying to go two directions at once. Again, somehow he was spared that extra bit of humiliation, the class silent and watchful as he made his way back up to his seat.
For a few minutes, Sam was the perfect model of diligent student, taking well-detailed notes with the enthusiasm of one who was engrossed in the Civil War and just couldn't wait until the next lecture to hear a few more funny antidotes about Lincoln that he didn't understand
But his cell just sat on the desk next to him, imploring him to slide the battery back in, to power it on, touch its little buttons and stroke his finger over the touchscreen and make his way inside, back to the text messages.
With the same desperate care a person used when defusing a bomb, Sam clicked the battery in then went back to his note-taking while he waited for it to power up.
Carefully, so carefully, he tapped the text icon and again, that picture filled the screen.
Holy fucked up Jesus.
It was a damned good thing that his boyfriend was an alien robot because if he'd been human, he would have needed at least three people with whom he was on exceptionally good terms with to tie him up like that. Bumblebee's holoform was on the floor, his knees drawn up under him but it was lines of black wrapped around him that drew Sam's gaze, dark against his pale, bare skin. It took him a moment to recognize what it was, followed the corkscrewed cable down, around, until it ended at an old style telephone.
A phone cord, Sam realized, had to be the longest one in existence, there were yards of it. Loops of it were around Bumblebee's arms and down his legs to end at his tightly wrapped ankles. His wrists bound behind him, just above the smooth curve of his ass where it arched invitingly into the air. He was facing the camera, eyes closed, and his lips soft pink and parted, visibly damp even at this resolution. His face was turned just a little into the floor where his cheek was pressed, his blond hair spilling across the floor like a halo. A contrast of innocence and obscenity and the handset was on the floor, the mouthpiece not quite touching Bee's soft lips.
Fuck, it was more like looking at a work of art than porn. Not that Sam's dick agreed, it was pretty sure this fell on the porn side of the equation and was currently straining against his zipper, like it was planning on taking off without him in search of a piece of that.
Sam blinked a little, trying to swallow a little spit back into his dry mouth and almost automatically, he drew his thumb down the phone's screen, scrolling down. Beneath the picture was one sentence.
Bumblebee: Hope you aren't too bored.
Call me when you get a chance. ;-D
A last, lingering look at that picture and Sam regretfully closed it, glanced at the time on his phone's main menu. Class had forty-five minutes left, and Sam had to sit here, pretending to take notes and faking enthusiastic interest in the Civil War.
No way around it. College was absolutely fucking boring but his boyfriend wasn't and tomorrow in Com Lit 125, he was going to be falling asleep and drooling on his notes. Sam just knew it.
Tonight, though. It wasn't a kegger and there weren't going to be boobs involved at all but Sam was willing to bet he wasn't going to be bored.
Not even a little.
-finis-