AN: I don't own Transformers or the song/music video Bad Romance. I'm just gaying them up for my own twisted amusement.
PS: This is pure, unashamed crack. Sit back, relax, and enjoy.
"I do not see why I have to go on this excursion," Dynobot growled, glaring venom at the back of Megatron's black helmeted head.
A deep, rumbling chuckle answered him, and the amaranthine tyrant tossed a smirk over his shoulder, one hand gesturing dismissively. "It's a social gathering," he explained, the rich baritone sending shivers down his lieutenant's spine, reminding him exactly what it was that kept him at Megatron's side. It didn't last, for the words that followed stung bitterly, even in that eternally charming voice. "For all your capacity, you lack basic social graces. Even Terrorsoar comports himself with more decorum than you, my darling lieutenant. Think of this as a learning experience, yes."
Cringing, the bronze and blue mech bowed his head, then straightened up and threw back his shoulders, carrying himself proudly. "Yes, Megatron. I shall do my best."
"Hmhm, yesss, see that you do," Megatron crooned, reaching back and pulling Dynobot, until they stood side by side. A violet arm slipped around his waist, and the tyrant smiled down at his warrior, making the other mech's face flush and crimson optics look away.
When the constructor next spoke, his words were hesitant, his shovel arm gently pressed against the arm around his waist. "What I do not understand," he began, optics glancing up to his lover's face, seeking approval for his question, "is why a bath house?"
Together, the pair paused in front of a white sign that, in large, bold lettering read "Bath Haus de Ratata," then Megatron laughed and gave his warrior a little nudge, urging him into the all white building.
"Because, my darling, this is a meeting of businessmechs, yes," the tyrant explained, leading Dynobot through stark halls, passed rooms with expansive windows that let passersby observe the many rooms. "A gathering of bots with refined tastes, such as myself. You'd never see the likes of us getting together at the local tavern and having a drink, now would you, no."
They passed a room filled with white pods. They were all blank except for one; a golden crown had been painted at the base, the word "Vermin" proudly printed underneath in bold letters. Dynobot wondered what sort of bots they held, or if they were some sort of stasis pods, their occupants waiting to be given life and form.
Further down, they passed a room containing a single bath, a slim, golden mech with impossibly large red optics sitting inside of it. One arm braced against the tub, holding him upright as he stared out, the other draped over the edge, his servo twitching restlessly. The warrior carefully detached himself from Megatron's side, oddly compelled to stop and stare back. The mech in the other room didn't seem to acknowledge his pressence, or even that of the world around him, and it was only after careful observation that Dynobot noticed a pair of silver wire trailing from his audios. They connected to a small console built into the bath, a few jumping red and green bars the only thing on the display.
As he watched, a troop of attendants entered the room through a back door, bearing down on the twitching mech. There were five of them, identical and all as stark white as everything else in the building. They were the basic femme shape, delicately curved and sculpted, but their smooth heads lacked a face, aside from a simple, straight nose and a black screening with green LED optics. Beautiful, but generically so.
It wasn't until one placed a hand on his shoulder that the golden mech showed any sign of sentient life, and even then, his reaction to the sudden contact was explosive, to say the least. An indignant shriek split the air, then all the attendants pounced upon him, grasping his arms and roughly hauling him from the bath. He fought and struggled, but the generic femmes must have had more strength in them then it looked, for within a cycle, they had him pressed against the tub and were busy prying away at his armor, more attendants filing in with bits of polished chrome metal.
Dynobot was so enthralled by the dramatic scene before him, he almost jumped and shrieked himself when a heavy hand came down upon his shoulder.
"Come along, Dynobot, we mustn't be late, no," Megatron commanded, the hand digging into the warriors plating and all but dragging him along. "All this lollygagging is unsightly. What goes on in these rooms is none of your concern, no, not at all."
"But Megatron, I-I-"
"But what?" the tyrant bellowed, rounding suddenly on his lieutenant, throwing him back against the window he'd just been staring through. Intense red optics bore down into the warrior, making his faceplates flush with heat and his knees tremble. No one made Dynobot so weak or terrified as Megatron was able.
And just like that, the anger was gone, wiped away and replaced with a sweetly sinister smile.
"Come now," he purred, stepping back and offering Dynobot his arm. "It wouldn't do to be late. We mustn't keep the others waiting, no."
"No," Dynobot assented, shaking slightly as he took Megatron's arm and allowed himself to be lead along. The rest of the journey passed quietly, more rooms and more windows passing by on either side, but he kept his eyes on the floor, half-afraid to be captivated by the drama unfolding just beyond the glass.
Their destination was marked only by the presence of A Host. The medium sized mech was unlike any other model out there, though in reality, it was little more than a glorified service drone. It had a standard sized frame that was painted black with faint white pinstripes running vertically. Its servos were painted white, and a wide, fake smile stretched over the smooth planes of its face. Two round optics sat within it's off-pink head, made entirely out white and blue glass. There was a small, black hole in the center of each optic for the lens, and it unnerved Dynobot to see the inner-workings of a bot so clearly displayed, even if it was only such a small part.
"Lord Megatron! We've been expecting you!" The Host greeted in its overly enthusiastic, tinny voice. "Fashionably late, I see."
"Well yes, I do so enjoy making an entrance," the tyrant chuckled, slipping an arm around Dynobot's waist. "This is my lieutenant, Dynobot. He'll be joining me today. Tell me, have the festivities started already?"
"Drinks have been served, my lord, but we've been holding off on the bidding until your arrival. You're the last mech to arrive." The Host's painted smile flashed. It turned, ran a hand over the wall, and a door opened, leading into another room.
The meeting room was just as brilliantly white as any other in the building, made even more so by the illuminated tiles that lined both the floor and the ceiling. It was painfully blinding, and Dynobot had to shutter his optics a few times before they fully compensated for the light filling the room. A few chairs were huddled together in one corner of the room, white, naturally, though they ranged from high backed, cushioned armchairs to simple stools to complex folding chairs. The mechs seated in them were just as varied, though thankfully they had a bit of color to them.
"Would your lieutenant like to be a part of the bidding?" The Host asked, turning his doll-like optics to Dynobot.
"That is... really not up to me..." the warrior began, taking a step back. The construct's empty eyes unnerved him, much like the rest of the strange building.
"Oh, why not?" Megatron cut in, gesticulating grandly. "He is his own person, is he not? However, Dynobot, my darling sub-commander," he added, lowering his head and his voice to the warrior's audios. "If you see something you like, do feel free to think twice before bidding, yes?"
"Of course, my lord!" Dynobot replied, not bothering to lower his voice or keep the scorn from his tone. Though he couldn't stand up to the malevolent dictator when they were alone, he felt no such qualms about holding back when in the public eye. After all, Megatron's image was More Important than his feelings for his underling. And it was that sort of thing that provided the perfect ammunition for his occasional outbursts. "As if anything in this facility could satisfy me the way you do!"
All conversation died as the assembled mechs turned their attention to the pair, optic ridges raising when applicable. For an awkward moment, Megatron squirmed under the scrutiny of his peers, but unfortunately, it didn't last long enough. All it took to restore his image was a small cough and a confident smile.
"And that, Dynobot, is why I say you need to work on your social skills, yes," he chortled, placing a hand on the warrior's shoulder. Armor buckled and dented under the pressure of the tyrants fingertips, a warning that any future attempts at sass would end in public humiliation.
The appropriate response would have been to cringe and bow his head, but the constructor mech felt like pushing his luck one more inch; he bit the inside of his lip and took the pain stoically, giving the tyrant nothing more than a strained, "Yes, Megatron. I shall keep that in mind."
He should have been slapped for that, at the very least, but Megatron must have thought it would negatively impact his image; all Dynobot got for his insolence was a stern glare, a little growl, and a shove before the imposing mech turned away from him, took his bidder from The Host, and settled gracefully into a seat.
As it happened, Megatron needn't have worried. Once Dynobot was given a bidder and took a seat at the violet mech's side, the escorts were paraded out one by one. Though they were all stunningly beautiful in an aesthetic sense, they lacked any other qualities the warrior desired in a berthmate. There was no excitement, no sense of danger to them. Many were quiet, subdued and downcast, while others were outright fearful of the mechs they were performing for. It was sickening how quickly the other mech's snapped them up, paying top dollar for pitiful looking mechs and femmes who looked to be nothing more than slaves. Even Megatron joined in the bidding enthusiastically, though he backed off whenever it looked like he might win. The warrior suspected he did it just to push his peers' buttons, looking to see how far they were willing to go.
For the bronze-armored warrior, however, the afternoon passed slowly, drawn out into a long, joyless daze. There were several moments when he caught himself with his optics dimmed, cheek resting against his servo. If only he could fall to recharge, but no, Megatron would never forgive him. It was a miracle that he wasn't being punished for being inattentive, though he suspected that gauntlet would fall later, in private.
He was startled from his thoughts when the generic background music abruptly ended and The Host cried out, gracefully leaping to the center of the gathered mechs. With a sweeping gesture of his servo and a low bow, he directed their attention to the attendants that were now making their way across the room, a squirming, thrashing object clutched within their grip. "Gentlemechs, it's the moment you've all been waiting for! The crown jewel of Bath Haus de Ratata, our very own, Rattle!"
A a think, fur-lined black wrap was ripped away from the struggling thing, and a silver and cobalt mech was sent unceremoniously sprawling to the floor. He landed at Dynobot's feet, and the bronze mech arched an optic ridge, leaning forward to get a better look at the so-called coup de grace of machinery. The silver-blue head jerked up just as the warrior looked down, and crimson met crimson. The optic contact was brief, but in the moment before the attendants raced forward and hauled the mech to his feet, Dynobot saw pride, defiance, and determination burning within those scarlet depths.
Synthesized femme voices poured out from the speakers as the lithe mech once more struggled with his attendants, purposely falling back against them, only to be pushed forward and flanked by them. He gave them a glare over his shoulder, then bowed his head, arms held out to his sides. The music took on a staccato beat, then the mech lifted his head, vocals burst past his lips with a surprising intensity.
"Ra-Ra-Ah-Ah-Ah! Roma-Ro-Ma-Ma! RaTa-Ooh-La-La! Wan'chor bad romance!"
With that, he took a few short steps forward, hips swaying from side to side, arms sweeping over his head and off to the side, servos clapping together in time to the music. He replaced The Host within the center of the assembled mechs, stopped, and did a little hop. His feet were barely touching the ground before they were spreading apart, his servos sliding over his chest, hips, and thighs.
"I wan'chor ugleh, I wan'chor disease," he crooned, voice turned low and harsh with faked desire. Servos scraped over his inner thighs, then clenched into fists and were brought up to his chest. He leaned forward, pushing them out towards the audience, and fanned his fingers, beckoning them closer. "I wan'chor ev'rythin' as long as it's free; I wan'chor love."
"Love, love, love, I wan'chor love." His hips swung to the side, briefly displaying his profile to the mechs in the center, then faced forward once more, sinking gracefully down to the ground. He threw his head back, optics dimmed, moaned out a "yeah," then jerked his head up, knees snapping apart.
"I wan'chor drama, th' touch'a yer hand," he leered, once more dragging his fingertips over his inner thighs and cupping his groin. He tossed his head and bucked his hips, a silver glossa darting over thin lips. "I wan'chor leatha' studded kiss in th' sand; I wan'chor love. Love, love, love, I wan'chor love."
"Yanno dat I wan'cha." He rose to his feet. "Yanno dat I need'ya." He stood with his feet held together, servos out to the side, palm up. "I wanna bad, bad romance."
An optic ridge quirked, then he mock-gasped, lips forming a perfect O, optics round and wide. Servos came up to cover his mouth, flew into the air, and dropped down to his sides. "I wan'chor love, an' I wan'chor revenge. You n' me cin write a bad romance." Servos out, up to his mouth, into the air, then down again, all while the mech was wearing a mask of feigned innocence. Dynobot would've fallen for it, if he hadn't known any better.
He did a little hop, one foot sliding over the floor. It came back with a second hop, his other foot slipping out, and he dipped into a low bow. "I wan'chor love, 'n all yer love is revenge. You 'n me cin write a bad romance!" His body arched up, and with it came the servos, held out at chest level, the tips of his pointers and thumbs barely touching. The servos move with his hips, which rock back and forth with the music.
His hips move slowly as he turns to his side, once more showing off his profile. One servo rests on his hip, the other held high in the air as he flicks his wrist and bucks his hips. "Caught inna bad romance," he coos, spinning his arms wide, quick-stepping and displaying his backside. "Caught inna bad romance."
There's a brief moment where the silver mech leaned over, servos trailing over hips and thighs, but all Dynobot could see was the gentle curves of the tiny dancer's aft. His finger twitched on the bidder, and the numbers on the counter jumped up, his name flashing in the corner of the display. Megatron might've glared, but the warrior took no notice. Despite his feigned nonchalance, his optics were glued on Rattle.
As he stood, the dancer's attendants once more grabbed at his lithe form, spinning around to face the mechs he was performing for. They moved with him as he stood, feet shoulder width apart, and dragged his servos up over his hips and waist. "I wan'chor horra', I wan'chor design. Cuz yer a criminal as long as yer mine," he smirked, one hand over his spark chamber, the other pointed right at Dynobot, fingers shaped into a gun.
A smokey gaze was leveled at the warrior, and he licked his lips as he mimed firing his "gun." Dynobot's finger twitched on the bidder again, and Rattle turned to face him, crimson optics boring right into him.
An attendant pushed him over, but they maintained smoldering optic-contact as the dancer fell to his hands and knees. "I wan'chor love. Love, love love, I wan'chor love," he purred, pushing himself up with a sinuous arch of his torso.
"I wan'chor psycho, yer vertical stick," he sang, clenching one hand into a fist in front of his gearbox, the other hand pumping the air as if stroking a plug. He turned his back on the audience, swung his leg out, and looked over his shoulder, optics lowered seductively as he purred, "Wan'cha in my rear window, baby, it's sick. I wan'chor love."
And just like that, Rattle spun around and skidded across the floor on his knees. Falling towards the floor at Dynobot's feet, the silver mech prowled forward, hips swaying with every movement, thin lips curled up into a smirk and mischief glinting in his optics. Dainty fingers pressed into his thigh, then suddenly, he had a lap full of Rattle.
"Yanno dat I wan'cha," the silver mech cooed, throwing his arms around Dynobot's neck.
"Yanno dat I need'ya." Their hips rubbed together, Rattle's crotch bucking into the larger mech. The warrior did his best to appear unaffected and disinterested, but when thin lips brushed over his audios, his finger slammed down onto the bidder again and again. The counter clicked to one million credits and a buzzer went off, his name flashing on the bottom of the screen.
"I'm a free bitch, baby."
Dynobot wasn't sure what happened next, but he heard Megatron roar with anger, and Rattle was ripped off his body, then the tyrant's enraged face was filling his viewscreen. Dimly, his audio receptors picked up a squeak and a clatter, then the scrape of chairs and angry voices as the others lept to their feet. A burst of pain brought the warrior to his senses, and he realized Megatron's fingers were digging into his biceps as he was hauled bodily to his feet. He stumbled after the dictator as he was hauled from the room, dazed as the last few cycles and the weight of his actions went crashing through his processor.
He barely felt it as he was thrown against the wall hard enough to leave a dent, just as he heard and saw Megatron's slap that sent him tumbling to the floor.
"Fool!" the tyrant bellowed, spinning on his heel, turning his back on Dynobot. "Imbecile! Do you know what you have done, you treacherous wretch?!"
"I-I'm sorry Megatron! I-I couldn't help myself! Those optics! So fierce and strong and.... and his aft-!"
The warrior's pleading was cut off as Megatron caught him by the throat and pinned him against the wall. "What about his aft?" he snarled, pushing his face right into Dynobot's.
The warrior whimpered, but a quiet, polite cough kept him from having to answer. Megatron's attention was drawn away to The Host standing off to the side, looking up with glassy eyes and his fake, painted on smile.
"Lord Megatron? What would like done with Rattle?" he asked, his tone sweet and disarming. It wasn't the first time he'd had to deal with an enraged customer. "Your lieutenant did win him fair and square, and the funds have been deducted from your account..."
Carmine optics narrowed, the ultramarine dictator glaring coldly down at The Host, then up at Dynobot. He uttered a small sound of disgust, then carelessly tossed the bronze mech at the other's feet. "Let the traitor enjoy his prize, yesss," he growled, pushing past the pair with a contemptuous sneer. "Perhaps when he's finished, he can beg for his place at my side once again."
"As you wish, Lord Megatron," The Host demured, but the dictator ignored him and sauntered down the hallway. Once he was out of sight, the servicemech bent down and helped Dynobot to his feet, giving him a little dusting off as he stood. "Come along then, Lieutenant. We have a room prepared."
The warrior followed automatically, feeling uncomfortably numb and hollow. The hallways all looked the same, The Host's black backside the only splash of color apart from his own bronze. He couldn't be bothered to look in all the windows this time around, though he would've sworn he saw Rattle standing in one, draped from head to toe in silver and black jewels. In another, out of the corner of his optic, he caught sight of an eerily similar brown and green mech pacing slowly back and forth. Dynobot could almost hear him muttering under his breath as he stepped carefully, servos on his hips.
"Walk, walk, fashion baby; work it, move dat bitch ca-razy. Walk, walk, passion baby; work it, I'mma free bitch, baby."
Primus, that voice sounded like Rattle. Were they manufacturing more like him here, or was it just his imagination?
He didn't have time to think too deeply about it; The Host stopped in front of a space of plain white wall and pressed his hand against it. A green light flashed above it, and a panel swooshed open. There was yet another white room beyond, but there was a large, red-draped berth in the very center. A pair of red-tinted wall sconces gave the room a slightly warmer feel than the rest of the building, but there was something so very sterile about it all. It wasn't the sort of place Dynobot would feel comfortable interfacing in.
He stepped inside anyway, the panel sliding shut behind him, locking in place with a faint hiss. In one corner of the room, there was an energon dispenser, and the warrior made a beeline over to it before he settled on the edge of the bed. The cube of high grade helped settle his nerves, drown out the thoughts of what would happen when Rattle was sent to his room, what he'd do, what Megatron would do, what he'd have to do to make it up to the dictator...
A short, amused chuckle brought his head up. A bit too late, Dynobot noticed he'd leaned over, his elbow on his knee and chin in his servo. He had no idea how much time had passed, but from the pair of drained cubes at his feet and the almost empty one in his hand, it must have. He couldn't even remember finishing the first off, let alone getting more!
Panic started rising in the warrior, but a small, silver servo caught his chin and gently tilted his face up. Rattle was standing next to him, smiling at him with nothing but compassion in his crimson optics.
"Yer boyfriend's kinda a dick, ain't he?" the tiny mech asked, rubbing his thumb over Dynobot's lower lip.
A small shiver passed through the tall mech's frame. He leaned into the comforting hand and dimmed his optics, forcing himself to push everything but the moment from his mind. He could almost remember when Megatron still treated him so delicately...
"If I may be frank, I think that's the understatement of the stellar cycle," he heard himself saying, and knew it was true. Whatever Megatron had felt for him in the past, it was gone now. He couldn't even begin to imagine why he continually allowed the tyrant to abuse him, or why he hadn't left vorns ago. Perhaps it was a combination of fear and memory, but after the way he'd been treated today, he wanted it to end.
As if tapped into his processor, Rattle pressed a kiss to the crest of Dynobot's helm and murmured, "So whaddya say? You 'n me, wanna bust outta here?"
Relief filled the burly mech, and he smiled as he wrapped his arms around the dancer's tiny waist. "That," he sighed, pressing his face into Rattle's chest, "is probably the best idea I've heard in a long, long time."