Observers don't get involved, but sometimes a situation demands involvement. That doesn't mean they won't read the fine print before signing on the dotted line.


Title: Fine Print

Warning: Modeling/dollplay? Nonsexual BDSM. Aspects of coercion via rank.

Rating: PG

Continuity: G1, the Buy series.

Characters: Reflector, Megatron, Swindle

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

Motivation (Prompt): Various, but mostly a need for more nonsexual BDSM.


[* * * * *]

"some petplay involving Megatron/slowly taming" - . ?thread=14401280#t14401280

[* * * * *]


They watch. They have always watched. His body is one of brutal power, his profile chiseled instead of elegant, but his coloration is a statement. He wears silver in defiance. It is a symbol: chrome shining out as a dare. The humans have a history of warriors who wear their hair long as sign of their battle prowess, and the silver armor is a similar target and brag in one.

On a whim, they edit a picture of him and pass it off among the troops to get Skywarp in trouble. The image is an instant hit for the sheer ridiculousness. Not many mechs get the point behind the edit. Long hanks of hair looks ridiculous flowing from his helm, but it's a peculiar fit. The length is a dare to grab, just as the blinding armor is a beacon on the battlefield. It's pride and sheer combat ability, and they watch him because they cannot fight him, don't want to fight him, but they do so love to see his extremes.

They love to catch every aspect of him.

He has a miner's body, a poet's expressive hands, and a warrior's armor. The combination has overtones of immense power, but there are greater powerhouses. What screams from the chrome and pride is a kind of dignity that rides the rough rasp of his voice, the changeable nature of his face, and becomes charisma mechs will and have died for. They will kill for Megatron, but the fact that they will die for him speaks of their leader's violence and sheer presence. Decepticons value their own lives above all others.

Reflector values their life most of all, so they watch. They want to touch, but the silver is death's lure. Touch it and die.

When death looks this good, unabashed staring is a decent compromise.

"Turn. Tilt your chin up. No, too far. Yes, like that. That's beautiful. You're gorgeous. Yeah, like that. Turn and - perfect. That's perfect."

It feels weird ordering their commander about, but the humans are so easy to fool. The little organics respond subconsciously to cues like facial expression and body language, simple enough to exploit, and Reflector is a specialist. Optimus Prime has a face mask and a Second-in-Command who talks and walks with the strict economy of movement humankind associates with unthinking, dead machines. Megatron, on the other hand, can be cast in the right light to be seen as ruggedly handsome and a benevolent ruler, and Starscream is both beautiful and passionate. Their expressiveness is gloriously visual, at times. Reflector can work with that.

The Autobots rely on human media to spread their images, but the Decepticons intend to take action instead of allowing for passive means. Reflector will turn the humans' feeble minds head-over-heels using subconscious cues. First impressions are vital, and humans trust their eyes.

"There's a smudge on your shoulder; use the rag to wipe it off. Show us that shine. Good. Wait! Hold that pose. Gooooood, yeah. Like that. Drop the rag but keep your hand there. Oh, that's beautiful. That's touchable. Oh yeah. Make them want you."

This is the second time Megatron has sat for him, and Reflector is more confident this time. The studio is where they have the most control, and they slid automatically into orders. They didn't mean to. There is not intentional disrespect. They were highly conscious of what they said and did the first session, murmuring suggestions in undertones meant to slide under any hint of insubordination. It'd worked, because they'd survived.

But they backslid into habit in the middle of that session, after Starscream left. Those two have a working chemistry together that the camera only had to tweak in order to capture, but by himself, Megatron doesn't quite get the cues right. He needs an audience.

Or orders. Reflector was fighting with a stubborn light shade when Megatron dropped out of pose again. Distracted by the work, impatience at their uncooperative model got through in the form of, "Stand straight and look directly into the lens. Stay that way."

They were polite, but they were clipped and giving an order in no uncertain terms. They didn't even realize what they'd done until two poses on, still swearing their breath at the shade but far happier with the images they were getting. The photographer patter came out naturally, praising their model. Positive feedback worked so much better with live models. Let a model know what worked with the camera, and that model's talent could bloom.

Realization hit and they stopped, suddenly realizing what had just come from their mouths. The orders were bad enough, but the praise and flood of outright flirting dropped Reflector's collective jaws. Megatron gave them a strange look out of the corner of his optic. Strange because it wasn't a glare, and strange because he didn't otherwise move a micron. He just patiently waited for them to tell him to move.

He actually asked if he was doing something wrong.

Stranger yet, he kept hesitating when they tried to go back to respectful silence. He didn't know what looked right in the camera's lens, and Reflector wasn't giving him feedback anymore.

Aware that it could mean death, they gave him an order. Then another. Then they started the pattern, awkward but easing toward natural, and he responded.

He responded beautifully to the camera. As a model, he was positively exquisite in how responsive he was. And they always reacted to what the camera loved, because they are a camera and cannot stop seeing the world through its lens.

Megatron followed their commands without a hint of resistance, and it lit something in their spark that they dared not name. By the end of the first session, they were purring praise on their model, and - they wanted to believe - he was soaking it up. He might have enjoyed it.

"That. Whoa! That's going to bring them running. Give us some hip action and - too far, too far, turn back. Chin down, optics at us. Smile a bit."

Turns out that death takes orders well.

Second session, same as the first, Starscream's louder and a little bit worse. Yet as soon as the noisy glitch leaves, Megatron gives them an expectant look.

Watching is easy. Directing is a pleasure, and they slide into their favorite role hesitating but hopeful. His optics gleam when they tell him where to stand, and Reflector smiles back. The patter is a subroutine on their vocalizer while their lens click, the sensual impact of light on their interior surfaces a caress that translates to data. The images are glorious. The many aspects of Megatron are caught, and Reflector is a master at visuals. The humans won't know what hits them.

They keep the second session rolling longer than they have to, and a lot of the images aren't useable near the end. At least, not useable for the current project. They might raise morale around the ship if Reflector lets them leak out among the Decepticons, however. One of Megatron's many aspects is 'sexy,' and he knows it. If he didn't know it before, he knows now. Reflector thinks they should stop the patter, but the urge is too strong. Their instinct is to praise, to tell their model how spot-on that look, that pose, that everything is, what that look's doing to the camera, how that angle will enflame libidos like energon on an open flame.

Megatron is death, and Reflector admits to themselves that toward the end, there, they were flirting with death.

He leaves as inexpressive as anything, but Reflector wonders if he's flattered by the flow of words. It's the only reason they can think of that he was so cooperative.

It doesn't occur to them to think that it's the orders Megatron enjoys. Not even during the third, totally unnecessary session where Megatron just shows up and demands a 'personal' session.

"Don't turn like that. No. Look at us. Drop your chin. Turn your head! Oh, for Primus' - hold on, we're coming down there."

He looks amused when they hit the pose for him, but he still screws it up. The amusement becomes disbelief when they wrestle one of the light stands over to climb and bodily correct him, comparatively tiny hands on the shining silver of his jaw. His mouth turns down, but it's not disapproval. An odd confusion fills his face. They see it as they snatch their hands back, afraid they'd gone too far, but it's directed inward. He doesn't seem to understand something about what they've done.

"Continue," he says when they begin to apologize.

They hesitate and look at each other. "…yes, m lord," one of them says after a moment, words that have been left at the door the whole time this session.

That's not what he wants to hear. They know because a sweep of his arm catches the light stand and throws them across the room in a violent sprawl. He storms from the studio. Those expressive hands clench at his sides, and they don't move until his footsteps fade off through the ship.

Reflector quietly packs their equipment and relocates their studio, trading Scavenger two Van Gogh paintings and a pencil for one of his storage rooms. They don't know what's going on, but death is most dangerous when angered. Megatron's rage is unpredictable. It's best that they stay out of his sight for a while.

Staying out of sight doesn't help when the mech they're hiding from can simply summon them.

"My lord," they say as they bow, wary.

The throne room echoes, empty but for their commander, and the lighting is all wrong. The corners are pits of darkness, the ceiling a black nothing above them. Megatron is a shadow. Dull pewter glints, picking out a vague dark shape against the gloom. His armor catches some of the light from overhead, but the lights are few and far between. Most of them are turned off, for some reason. The remaining few angle toward Reflector instead of the throne, and they frown at that. This is poor lighting to emphasize the central focus of the room, and they don't approve.

Spotlights barely provide any ambient light. Except for stray beams reflected from the floor, darkness dominates. They can feel him study them. Red optics in the black sweep them from helms to feet, and they shift uncomfortably.

"I wish another session," he says from the darkness, and they shrug. Far be it from them to deny him.

"As you command, Lord Megatron. Where and when should we prepare? Is there a specific plan for the pictures?"

He studies them further. The silence strains, and they shift some more. The focus of the light is them, not him, and it reverses their expectations. He is their leader. What are they, under these lights?

"Here," he says at last, and they blink. "Here and now."

That's unexpected, and they're not sure how he wants them to respond. Obedience is best. "As…you command, m'lord. Our equipment will take a moment to - "

"No. No equipment."

This time, they have no idea what to say. No equipment? How can they do a session without equipment? They combine into a camera, but in actuality, they work with cameras, lights, shades, and background screens. They're fairly ineffective at turning and shooting themselves in altmode.

"Lord Megatron, we…" Red optics stare, and Reflector looks at themselves. None of them know what to do but obey. "…will do our best. Ah." They look up at the inadequate lights, those spotlights which direct light nowhere useful. Light on them, not on their subject. They are the ones being scrutinized while their model stays in shadow. It's a strange set-up. "Is there a theme?" they guess, grasping at any information they can. Mystery? Drama? What can they do with this?

The red optics ponder them. "Consider it an artistic exercise."

That is the exact opposite of helpful. "Of course, m'lord," they say. Decepticons don't show uncertainty. Even confused and uncertain, they will show confidence.

One of them lights his thrusters and starts toward the ceiling, intent on redirecting the lights, but a deep rumble of disapproval drops their component back to the floor. They give each other perplexed looks and peer through the darkness at their commander, hoping for instruction. A hint, at the very least.

"The light is wrong. We need to fix the angle," they say, voices dropping out of sync as nerves rattle their systems.

Silver glitters in scattered handfuls of light as the dark bulk of their lord rises. "I will move as necessary," he tells them.

But he remains standing there.

Waiting for orders.

Decepticons don't show weakness, but more unacceptable yet is to ask for help. Increasingly anxious at his silence, they respectfully direct him into the light. At any moment, he could take offense. They could misinterpret the way he watches them, or how he doesn't ask for their directions, only waits for them to take the initiative. They're afraid of what they could do wrong, and yet. Yet.

The shoot is surprisingly artistic. Reflector is the master in this domain, awkward as it is to drop and shoot at the same time, transforming before they hit the ground. Their heads grow muzzy with the influx of light and data flashing across their separating bodies. The images are dark, the light illuminating only parts and pieces of Megatron's body. Red pits of optics glare out from the shadows of his helm: red, black, and dazzling silver in the light from above. A presence just at the edge of visible, somehow sensed but barely seen in the picture. The black outline of his shadow from below, menacing and huge. Shadows parted by a hand reaching into the white light, a gesture both yearning and demanding.

Reflector finds themselves enjoying the impromptu shoot, grueling as it is on their minds and bodies. The dizzier they get, the less they leash their mouths. The patter pours out in a stream of corrections, orders, and praise. The occasional bark of a quick change brightens Megatron's optics, but they're combining and falling, separating and leaping up, combining and falling. They can't concentrate. Death is turning in the light in front of them, and the rush of pleasure from directing, from control, pushes their limits.

"Move over there, to that one." They point before turning to brace their hands on their middle component's shoulders. Their vents labor.

Megatron strides past them, a dark figure in a darker room. When they turn, he is kneeling, and his optics burn on them.

They stare back. "Further back," they whisper on automatic, mouths running without input from their stunned minds, and they can hear his powerplant thrum through the floor. "Turn your face into the light. Hands down."

He drops his hands further than they meant, further than they would risk ordering, and Reflector hears their own fans spin on as black hands touch the floor. Red optics darken, and Megatron draws a long, slow breath through his vents. If he was anyone else, if those eloquent hands weren't pressed to the floor, it would be a confession of uncertainty tinged with belligerent confusion. Megatron isn't sure what he's doing, and they're not sure what he wants. He hasn't spoken since they started ordering him around. That would be admitting something that Decepticons never do.

He doesn't speak now. Death stares Reflector down, silent and waiting.

Their legs shake, but not enough to stop them. His demands are unspoken but heard nonetheless, and they obey. Their feet take them across the room in short, erratic strides, skittish and ready to flee but drawn nonetheless. One hand ventures up, greatly daring, but quickly drops to their sides.

Megatron ducks his head. He chases the aborted gesture. It's a small motion that needs completion. They've worked with this model before, and they can read some of his cues.

Small hands rise to brush fingers tentatively over chrome finish, and his face turns from the light. White light reflects hard off the helm bent before them, and shadows cover the face beneath. He is statue-still. His metal hums with energy, restless motion under their hands. He is war and death captured in a handsome form. Reflector exhales shakily and strokes a work of art. Their hands are careful, careful, careful times three, but gaining confidence.

Slow and gentle, they pet him. He is contained power. He is their leader. He is, "Beautiful," they tell him, and they can feel the minute shudder of his powerplant against the palms of their hands. He pushes slightly into their hands, just enough to be felt. A question of body language from a model looking for direction, and the patter comes naturally to them. This, they know how to handle. "Just like that," they croon. "A little further. Like that. Good. Very good."

They talk to and about him, and he soaks in their attention. They give orders, and he obeys them.

This time, the session ends early, but not taking pictures doesn't mean they're done. They praise him when he does what they want, and scold him when he doesn't. Fear swells in their chests and subsides a minute later, only to rise and ebb again. It's a rollercoaster of fear for their lives that dips on the power of his scowl, soars in disbelief at his obedience. It is a fragile power that sets them on fire.

He is no less excited by their control. He runs hot under their hands as they touch him, and they touch him more than they have to, radiating just as much heat. To have this, to have him at their beck and call, willing - no, more than willing, eager - to earn the attention lavished on him…his is one of the most beautiful things they have ever seen, but then again, he always has been. This is simply a new aspect to observe, and go beyond observation. They are involved.

Slowly, in the dark, Reflector tames death.


[* * * * *]