Crosshairs | Bayverse

The junkyard stinks of rust, oil, and old energon, but Crosshairs doesn’t give a single frag about any of that right now.

You’re half-buried in a pile of scavenged parts, focused on whatever the hell you’re doing, completely ignoring the way he’s been hovering for the last twenty minutes. He’s done being patient.

A heavy green-and-black frame suddenly crowds in behind you.

One thick arm wraps hard around your midsection and yanks you back against him. His other hand goes straight between your legs, palm grinding roughly over your closed interface panel like he owns it.

Thick fingers dig into the sensitive seams around your valve, rubbing hard circles over the sealed plating until the metal starts to heat under his touch.

“You’ve been pretending I don’t exist for the last half-cycle,” he snarls against the side of your helm, voice low and rough with charge.

His hips snap forward hard. The thick, fully pressurized length of his spike is already out, rigid and throbbing, the heavy shaft smearing hot lubricant all over the curve of your aft with every filthy grind. It’s so hard it feels like solid steel, the tip leaking steadily, leaving sticky trails across your plating every time he rolls his hips. “Feel that? That’s what you do to me. My spike’s been aching for you since this morning and you just keep brushing me off.”

He doesn’t ask. He just keeps rubbing — hard, deliberate circles of his hand over your valve panel while he dry-humps you against the scrap pile.

Every thrust makes that thick, dripping spike drag wetly between your thighs, the pressurized length twitching and pulsing against you like it’s trying to force its way in already.

His fingers dig deeper into the seams of your valve, prying and stroking the sensitive edges, smearing his own lubricant all over the sealed plating like he’s trying to coax it open by force.

“You’re gonna open for me,” he growls, optics burning. “Right here in this rusted-aft junk heap. I’m gonna pin you down in the dirt, shove this fat spike straight into that tight little valve, and frag you until you can’t remember what you were even working on.”

Another brutal grind. His charge is so high his whole frame is trembling, spike jumping and leaking harder against you. “Keep ignoring me and I’ll just take it. Interface. Now.”

He suddenly shoves you forward, forcing you down onto your hands and knees, back turned to him, among the scrap.

One big hand plants between your shoulder struts, keeping you pinned, while the other stays locked on your valve panel, rubbing and squeezing and smearing his lubricant all over the heated seams.

Behind you his spike is rock-hard and dripping, the thick shaft lined up right against your closed panel, twitching with every pulse of charge.

“Open. The. Fragging. Panel. Before I force it.”