Once upon a commerce society, a merchant found an unconventional way to profit. Not everyone understands just what it is he does for money.


Title: Lease or Buy

Warning: Pet play

Rating: PG

Continuity: G1

Characters: Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons

Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

Motivation (Prompt): A kinkmeme request ( . ?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.


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Part One

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Once upon a commerce society, a merchant wandered into a deal outside his usual realm of experience…

Eh, scrap that. It was true, but life on Cybertron was no fairy tale. A merchant who normally dealt in heavy armament beheld an opportunity for some light trading, and he went for it. It worked out. Credits changed hands, and it was more enjoyable for the merchant than anticipated. He decided this type of deal was good for himself, personally, if not necessarily for his normal side of business: no pressure, lots of positive attention, and money as a reward for sacrificing his free time. That was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

He hung out his sign in the new trade, as it were, and didn't expect more than a few customers. His prediction fell far short of the mark, however. It turned out that the particular sector of the commerce society he worked in was short on mechs like him. Word got around. Offers poured in. The merchant, somewhat to his surprise, found that there were plenty of buyers looking for a willing to throw their credits at him. They competed to buy him in his off-time. They gave him gifts and all but adored him, treating him with utmost respect even as they hired him. He fulfilled their wishes, and in return, they would do almost anything to keep him happy and on the market.

The merchant discovered that he liked that. Caution relaxed into a lazy, discreet kind of comfort with the new business side of his life.

Then Kaon, Onslaught, and Shockwave happened. The Detention Centre kind of put a crimp on business overall, much less leisure-time activities.

Earth also happened, however. Earth was an open market. The merchant quickly buried himself in new business on the black market, the stock market, any market he found, and he was happy. Primus, was he ever happy. It wasn't the galactic market, but humans dealt in some nice weaponry. A few improvements, barely even a drop of alien technology, and the humans fought over themselves to throw money in his direction. He made money hand over fist, minimal effort and maximum return.

Outside of the markets, Earth wasn't a paradise for Swindle. Cybertron hadn't been his fairy tale beginning, nor was the middle anything but a war for survival. And credits, of course. Swindle could do business under the worst of conditions. He was no princess. He knew how to fight to get what he wanted. Nobody would save him, and he'd kick the aft of anyone who suggested he needed to be saved. Sure, he had joined the Decepticons technically as a noncombatant, but anybody who believed somebody covered in weaponry was playing display model only? They needed their processors defragged, pronto. Swindle was the best in the business, and his business was armaments and everything associated with them. He knew his goods inside and out, and his goods mostly consisted of stuff governments banned while buying by the crateload under the table.

What he couldn't bargain his way out of, he could blow the top off of. He might be an Autobot-sized grounder among heavy-duty frames, but he was no push-over. He could shoot the knees out of anybody taller than him. Anybody bulkier, he knew someone with a friend who could call in a favor on a buddy and get an airstrike if the frag grenades he kept on hand didn't do the job. Mechs either respected his ability to use his wares, or they experienced his job skills first hand. Even if he didn't take them out, his vast network of business acquaintances was perfectly willing to take out bothersome mechs who thought the merchant's size made him vulnerable.

On Earth, those who crossed him found themselves out of ammo or even small luxuries at the worst time, and frag if he'd sell them any more. There was nothing quite like going up against Optimus Prime with only half a clip left, or discovering that the Constructicons were out of black paint, leaving only that horrid chartreuse color that made anyone who wore it a laughingstock.

To be honest, Swindle had been so involved in reconstructing his business network and defending himself against Autobot and Decepticon alike that he'd forgotten that anybody looked at him as a commodity. He was Earth's most wanted illegal arms' merchant, or the smallest Combaticon. He was a lot of things on and off-duty, a charming smile and practiced business spiel schmoozing with Cybertronians and humans alike, and it simply didn't occur to him to consider other business angles. All in all, he was just really busy with more serious deals.

Waking up after the Detention Centre hadn't been easy on any of the Combaticons. Rebelling against Megatron and getting punched down not once but twice did them in for good. The loyalty programming just cinched the whole mess like a noose around their necks. They couldn't escape the Decepticons, and they were on the bottom of the Earth hierarchy now until they proved themselves worth of being permitted to move up. Official duty took up most of their time, because they had to haul their own weight plus prove that they were twice as tough as anyone who said otherwise.

It wasn't so bad for Brawl. Brawl just had to show up and punch things, and he was good. The others? Not so simple.

Onslaught persistently tagged after both Starscream and Soundwave, playing 'junior' tactician just to claw his way into officer meetings. Humiliated by their condescending attitudes, he came back to the Combaticon base and spent more time than not on the firing range destroying suspiciously familiar-shaped targets. Then he reported for duty again, keeping his head down around Megaton and raising his hand like a kid in class to request permission to interject an observation or opinion in tactical meetings.

Blast Off had the worst orbital shifts as the most inexperienced of the Earth space-capable crew. He came down from his flights pitted from debris, cold from poor maintenance on his exterior shielding, and utterly exhausted. He recharged like the dead and traded planetside shifts to maximize his rest time, even at the expense of trading monitor duty for foundation reinforcement duty on the outside of the underwater base. There was very little in life more pitiful Blast Off's dull visor when the tired shuttle slumped into his berth still reeking of sea water.

Vortex was the Constructicons' scut-monkey and occasionally Soundwave's errand 'bot, and he sullenly submitted to their superior medical and interrogation expertise in the hopes of being allowed to demonstrate his own work experience. He returned to the Combaticon base and sat in his quarters staring at the wall. The look in his visor burned, he hated himself so much.

None of them were allowed the control to show their abilities, or the full extent of their skills. Megatron was no fool. The dangerous trio of tactician, sniper, and interrogator had nearly taken Kaon right out from underneath Shockwave. Megatron put them at the bottom here on Earth, and that's exactly where he would keep them crushed until he forgave them. So approximately never.

Swindle, on the other hand, showed up for his first shift under Ratbat, reorganized the financial records, shuffled some credits around, bought shares, made a few contacts with three phone calls and a delivery of flowers to the right address, and ended up promoted to Finances & Procurement Officer. Under Ratbat's close supervision, of course, but yeah. Just like that. One shift, and he was right back where he'd left off when Onslaught originally sucked him into the Kaon scheme.

The nice thing about openly being a money-grubbing mercenary was the freedom to sell himself to the highest bidder. A merchant went where the credits were, and Megatron had the credits. Therefore, he belonged to Megatron. The loyalty programming eased Megatron's mind over the matter, but loyalty didn't matter. Swindle belonged to the mech with the money.

It wasn't always an easy role, but Swindle played it well. He could do what nobody else in the Decepticons could: he could get along with everybody. He was, by nature, a people-person. He liked to listen, he liked to be 'in' on things, and he absolutely loved attention. Swindle had the wide purple optics and a nice, friendly smile.

Wait, rewind, because that was the part he took for granted these days. The optics and the smile, not to mention somebody had put that groundframe together with more than a nod to what was easy on the optics. He took them for granted so much because he'd forgotten anyone could see the conmech personae at face value, emphasis on the face. Everybody who approached him wanted product, not the person selling it.

So when Thundercracker stopped by the unofficial Combaticon table six months after their reprogramming and return to Earth, well, he didn't think much of it. "Sure, I've got a minute for my favorite blue Seeker," Swindle said, already smiling. Those pretty, pretty purple optics sparkled, and he winked as he stood up. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemechs. A customer calls."

Onslaught glanced at the flyer, but Thundercracker ignored the rest of the table. As per usual. When someone wanted to talk to Onslaught, Blast Off, or Vortex, the summons came the same way a mech would call a cyberhound: 'Here! Sit. Stay. Do a trick.' And the three Combaticons, thoroughly tamed, did their tricks on command. Brawl never noticed or cared how he was called, because he was used to being one of the faceless soldiers, but they fumed silently every time they had to play flunky.

When someone wanted Swindle, however, they walked over and politely asked for some of his time. Because Swindle inevitably had something that mech wanted.

Although the cant of Thundercracker's wings suggested a different deal than a mere weapon's upgrade. Onslaught was starting to get a handle on gauging Swindle's business deals by body language. He studied the two chatting mechs out of the corner of his visor. They stood just out of audio range, but Thundercracker's stance shifted slightly as he watched. The Seeker's hips angled, bringing wide blue wings closer to Swindle's shoulders in a far more intimate gesture than normal business called for. What kind of deal was this? Swindle's head tipped back, his optics widening before he looked down and away, a low riff of laughter breaking his composure.

More telling, the smooth-talking merchant didn't glide outside of the gesture, letting it swish by. One foot moved forward, in fact, until the smaller Decepticon eased into Thundercracker's personal space in conjunction with the Seeker's weight shift. Wicked optics peered up before those wings cut off Onslaught's line of sight.

"What's he up to?" Vortex muttered quietly, and Onslaught realized he wasn't alone in pretending not to watch the deal going down.

Now that he thought to look around the room, there seemed to be an inordinate amount of Decepticons paying close attention. Especially when Swindle sauntered back to the table, picked up his abandoned ration cube, smirked at the other Combaticons, and followed Thundercracker back across the room to the table unofficially claimed by the jets. Skywarp saw them coming and threw up his hands, but he grinned at Thundercracker instead of protesting as Swindle set his cube on the table. Thundercracker sat down, saying something to his wingmate. Swindle looked around the room, an oddly thoughtful expression on his face. After a brief hesitation, he nodded to the mechs staring intently at him.

And then he -

- he -

He sat on Thundercracker's knee.

Onslaught's hand tightened on his own ration, but Blast Off's intakes spluttered. "What the frag?" Vortex said deadpan. "Did I miss a memo? When did this become a thing?"

"It isn't a thing," Onslaught hissed, pinging the gestalt link that 'felt' like Swindle as hard as he could. On the periphery of his mind, he could feel Blast Off and Vortex doing the same. The link stayed sealed. Swindle's side of the gestalt link remained closed unless forced open by combining into Bruticus, and even then, none of them retained enough of their minds to go digging. Since most of them avoided exploring the bond out of sheer revulsion for what the spark-deep gestalt bond had forced on them, that had been fine.

Now? Now they regretted that. Swindle remained unaffected by their efforts. A vague sense of confusion filtered in from Brawl's link, which was perpetually left open because secrets were vulnerabilities he didn't have. He didn't give a scrap about mental connections or spark bonds. The three frustrated Combaticons blasted him with anger and alarm, and the tank fell off of whatever he'd been sitting on. Since he was currently on-duty, probably a chair.

*"What's your problem?!"* he yelled into the unit frequency. *"Reflector's laughing at me, ya afts!"*

"Swindle's sitting in Thundercracker's lap," Onslaught said tersely into his pick-up.

*"So?"* All three Combaticons blinked, taken aback. Their surprise filtered into the bond, and the tank's exasperation slapped them upside the gestalt links like he was right there at the table. *"He look like he's unhappy?"*

Trying not to look like they were spying, they checked.

Huh. Furtive looks turned to blank stares.

"No?" Vortex ventured.

*"Then knock it off. Idiots."* It wasn't often Brawl, of all mechs, got to say that to anyone. His side of the gestalt link radiated self-satisfaction before he walled it off.

Blast Off, Onslaught, and Vortex didn't notice. They were too busy noticing other things.

Swindle was definitely not unhappy. He had half-curled into Thundercracker's lap, legs tucked up onto the large Decepticon's other leg. His arms were splayed out on the table. His helm rested on one forearm, facing away from the Combaticons' table. He looked like he was half in recharge. One of Thundercracker's hands slowly moved over him, giving long strokes down his back and stopping to toy with his shoulder-wheels every few strokes. Fingers lingered on Swindle's helm, tracing along the upper edges and down the back before sweeping down and rising to start again.

Instead of being the center of attention for the table, some sort of prize or conversation piece, the other jets at the table were talking over the Jeep's head like he didn't exist. The cube in front of him had noticeably gained a finger-width more fuel, strangely. Even as the other three Combaticons stared, Thrust reached over and tipped another glug in. Thundercracker picked it up in one hand and held it beside Swindle's helm, jiggling it enticingly as he dipped his chin and murmured something. Swindle stirred and curled his legs a bit more as if searching for a comfortable position.

Thundercracker let him shift around and showed him the cube again once he settled. One hand batted at it. A rare smile creased the somber blue Seeker's face, and he put the cube down to go back to petting the smaller mech, saying something with a wry grin to the rest of the table.

The jets all laughed, and Skywarp donated a splash of his drink to the cube this time. Thundercracker nodded thanks to his wingmate and picked up the cube to once again tempt the Jeep. His other hand slid up to knead softly at the base of the neck exposed to him from how Swindle partially lay on the table. Shoulders shrugged at the touch, but Thundercracker persisted, jiggling the cube and talking quietly. The rest of the table kept their own conversation going as if none of the group cared in the slightest that Thundercracker had a fully functional mech in his lap, apparently trying to feed him like some kind of reluctant, finicky technimal.

Eventually, Swindle sat up and stretched, back arching down and wrists flexing on the table. He lifted his helm, and the Seeker's other hand moved from his neck to cradle his chin in careful fingers. Optics lidded and dim, chin held up on Thundercracker's fingertips, Swindle docilely parted his lips as the cube settled against his bottom lip. As exact as if he was measuring out enriched nucleon and Starscream were glaring at the back of his helm, the jet tipped the cube until a bare mouthful of energon poured out.

Swindle accepted it, and the cube lifted away while the fingers under his chin gently massaged his main intake tube, encouraging him to swallow. When he did, the hand on his throat went back to petting his back in long, relaxing strokes, and Swindle set his helm back down on his arm. Thundercracker set the cube down and went back to talking with the rest of the table like nothing had happened.

No, not quite. His optics dulled to a calm red, and his wings slanted out in a posture not usually seen from flyers trapped in an underwater base. It was…abnormal.

"What is he doing?" Blast Off whispered. Someone could have walked up out of nowhere and hit the Combaticons over the heads, and they would have been less shocked.

While they weren't the only ones gawping, most of the room didn't seem to care. That was what had Onslaught stunned. "It…must be something Thundercracker made a deal with him for."

The 'why' of it escaped him. He could see the 'what,' although he didn't understand what he was seeing. The jets around the table casually gave parts of their rations to Thundercracker to be fed in sips and swallows to the smallest Combaticon for no apparent reason. Swindle refused the cube more than once, turning up his nose or pushing it away with little batting motions. The blue Seeker rubbed his tires, thumbs circling his hubcaps over and over again, until the Jeep changed his mind and let himself be hand-fed.

"Didn't know he was that perverted," Vortex said, but the insult came out more like the 'copter were honestly surprised.

"Swindle or Thundercracker?" the shuttle next to him asked, almost in the same tone.

"Either. Both." He shook his head. "That's just - rust my rotors, if I'd known he'd auction himself off like this, I'd have bought him myself."

But it turned out to be not that simple. "Not interested," Swindle said bluntly to Vortex when the 'copter made an offer more sleeze than subtle. "I don't interface with clientele."

Blast Off and Onslaught scoffed from where they eavesdropped. The way Thundercracker had put his hands all over Swindle in the common room belied that claim. Not that Swindle had left the room with the jet or even done anything but sit there and let himself be fondled like some sort of lapdog, but come on. They could fill in the blanks easily enough.

The merchant eyed them narrowly. "Think what you want. You're not anyone I'd consider putting on the short list even if you had the cash to back up your offers."

That was an insult that couldn't be passed up. Onslaught strode forward and pinned the smaller Decepticon to the wall. "You want to say that again?" he rumbled, low and dangerous. He drew on every bit of control he had as gestalt leader and smacked Swindle's gestalt link with it.

This time, Swindle flinched. He'd felt that. "I'm off-duty," he gritted out anyway. "What I do on my own time is up to me, not you. If I want to sell that time, what of it? It's not yours, and you can't claim it just because you've got that Pit-slag bond to my spark!"

The arm across his chest bore down harder. "You are mine," Onslaught snarled. "We are a military unit. As far as military law's concerned, I command you, therefore I own you. I'll take whatever I want from you."

The other three Combaticons looked at each other uneasily, but Brawl shrugged, Vortex laughed, and Blast Off shook his head. They were already Megatron's whipping mechs. Finding out they were under Onslaught's heel as well wasn't life-changing news for any of them.

Not so for Swindle. The merchant was the king of compromise. He surrendered and made deals and found ways to bargain around insurmountable odds.

He bucked off the wall and kicked Onslaught full in the face. "You can try."

The Combaticon commander turned his head slowly back toward the pinned mech. His other hand rose to wipe a trickle of fuel from under his mask where a broken line flopped free from the dented plating. Swindle had gotten him a good one, but he hadn't let the Jeep go.

His visor seared into the kicking, squirming mech. "Yes, I can."

So he did.

He tried, and Swindle fought him. On-duty time was sacrosanct, dedicated to the leader their reprogrammed cores had to obey. Off-duty, Swindle schemed and ran, sabotaged and did everything possible to get away. Onslaught systematically smashed anything in his path and found the little conmech wherever he hid. That's when the real struggle began.

Brawl started spending more time at the underwater base, away from the rest of the team. He didn't object to his superior officers' glitches and whims, but that didn't mean he had to participate - or like it. Staying away was the tank's strongest objection. Vortex took the opposite route and lent a hand here and there where Onslaught needed it. But he was on double-duty because of whom he reported to. The 'copter wasn't often around to help.

Blast Off walked away from the ongoing fight, stating that, "This isn't my problem. You deal with him however you want."

Meanwhile, interest in Swindle's off-duty time grew even as the conmech buckled under Onslaught's crushing grip on the gestalt bond. The offers started coming in. Good offers, the kind that used to make the small grounder smile. These were the kind of offers he used to enjoy taking between armament deals. Those that remembered him from Cybertron spread the word, and the small demonstration with Thundercracker hadn't hurt. It seemed that the Earth-bound Decepticons had missed having someone like him around.

"That good of a frag?" Onslaught sneered when he intercepted a transmission. He couldn't break Swindle's transaction code, but he knew what the offer was for. Swindle wouldn't have tried to hide it if it were official Decepticon business.

The mech bent over on the floor, axle ground under the larger Combaticon's foot, refused to respond. He'd given up protesting that he didn't sell his body that way. Onslaught couldn't see any other reason someone would pay for his company.

"Maybe I should try you out myself."

That got a reaction. Swindle turned his helm until a purple optic glared upward, dark and furious. "Don't even say that."

Onslaught snorted.

Whether or not it was a scare tactic, the threat had been made. There wasn't anyone on the base to hear what happened, if anything ever did. Onslaught could follow through, and nobody would stop him. Swindle never opened his side of the gestalt link, not even under the worst Onslaught put him through. Who would help him? The others certainly wouldn't.

This wasn't a fairy tale. Nobody would swoop in to save his princess aft. It was up to him to get out of this mess.

The thing about an openly mercenary merchant was that he had no loyalty. Sometimes, self-interest could be the most brutal competitor on the market, and he would sell himself to that bidder in a split second.

A week later, the spare parts incident happened.

Swindle sold them all. He walked away from the other Combaticons and felt not a twinge of regret.

Oh, Megatron made him get them back. They were gestalt; the spark bond would have forced him to reassemble them eventually. By making Megatron turn his attention on him, however, it became a faction issue. Swindle bought and stole the other Combaticons, returning them to the Decepticons, and it wasn't because he'd made a mistake. What he'd done was very intentional: he'd taken it over Onslaught's head. Kneeling with Starscream's blaster at the back of his head, Swindle opened his side of the gestalt link to thrum grim satisfaction at the other four Combaticons.

Who could only stare in dumbfounded confusion from behind him. "Obviously, you fail to control your own combiner team," Megatron said to Onslaught, who winced. "Swindle's greed has made a fool of you, but Ratbat," the tyrant swept his hand toward Soundwave's Cassetticon, who preened smugly, "has shown himself more than able to keep such antics in check. As such, Swindle will be transferred to his command immediately. Any questions?"

The last was directed at Onslaught, since the gestalt leader's hand jerked up in protest. Onslaught looked up at his leader, swallowed hard, and let his pride die. He lowered his gaze and shook his head, staying silent. This was not the time to reveal how he'd been outmaneuvered. Megatron would have no sympathy for a commander who allowed a subordinate to manipulate him, which was precisely what had just happened. Swindle had gotten himself transferred from the Combaticon base, permanently out of Onslaught's reach and out from under his command unless he wanted to be a spectacle for the other Decepticons while trying to track down the Jeep in the underwater base.

Swindle meekly stood and went to stand behind Soundwave, at Ratbat's wing. He looked thoroughly cowed.

Only when no one was looking did pretty purple optics rise, and a smile cross his face. It was not nice.

He didn't need to be saved. Pity those who forgot that fact.


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[A/N: Yeah, this was me. I love the nonsexual side of BDSM, including things like pet play, and there isn't enough stuff written for it. Until the curtain rises next time, m'dears.]