They made it this far, despite the competition. A pity there can only be one winner.
Title: Dark Horses
Warning: A relationship extrapolation from what Robots In Disguise (the comic) showed of Swindle and Blurr. I blame Verit.
Rating: PG
Continuity: IDW
Characters: Swindle, Blurr
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): IDW gave us absolutely no closure on these two. I needed an outlet for what was left. Katy Perry or Switchfoot's songs both work for this pairing.
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It frankly wasn't fair how someone so lanky could be so fragging tall, wide, and heavy. Racers had all that long leg for good reason, but where did the bulk come from? Why did Blurr have to tower like a wall of blue next to him? It wasn't fair. Swindle's altmode wasn't humongous, but it stood taller on four wheels than Blurr's. It was heavier and wider, too. He should be the bigger one. That made sense, right?
Fragging size-shifting put reason in the back seat. When they transformed the size and weight advantage immediately heaved over to the blasted racer. The Autobot was faster, stronger, and Swindle ended up staring at his own reflection in Blurr's windshield every time. Fraggit.
"My optics are up here," Blurr sometimes joked.
"Money's down here," Swindle muttered back. He wasn't always talking about the shanix. The other ex-'Cons in the bar tended to be taller than Swindle, but their optics were drawn down to his level all the same. Wall of blue Blurr might be beside Swindle, but he was lanky, fast, and those legs went aaaaaaaaall the way up. Right up underneath Swindle's nose whenever Blurr forgot their height difference and turned around to get something from under the bar. Thighs for miles. Aft a mech could bounce shanix off of. Hip skirting tempting everyone in sight to slide their hands up underneath.
Swindle's optic-level got pretty crowded on busy nights. Everybody seated at the bar had a habit of ducking their heads, a row of bobbleheads moving in a wave down the bar as the racer-turned-bartender sped past. Swindle just slouched comfortably on his stool at the end of the bar, cheek supported by his fist and slag-eating grin in place. He had the best seat in the house. 80% of the time, Blurr was down at his end of the bar. It's where all the clean glassware was stored.
Looooooots of bending and lifting going on in lankytown. Shoulders thrown back for balance. Lifting with the legs. What a tall drink of engex, garnished by polished blue plating and speed speed speed. Mmm-mm, good scenery.
Still sucked that Swindle was short as frag around Blurr, but the view mollified him. Better yet, Swindle could sit on his barstool conducting business all night, and everybody bent down to his level unconsciously. Looming over him was a thing of the past. It was far more difficult attempting to intimidate him into a deal when half the time his customers snapped back into negotiations with their tongues dragging on the floor. Everybody and their frametype came over to where he sat to socialize, which was a plus. He didn't have to go anywhere or do anything. People invented reasons to hang out at his end of the bar. The business came to him.
Strange business, but business nonetheless. "Can I touch it?" one of the Tankors asked him once, as if he was the mystic gatekeeper of tapping that aft.
"Five shanix," Swindle said promptly.
Blurr stopped wagging his sweet little aft and emerged out from under the counter just enough that glowering optics peered over it at the merchant. Tankor swallowed hard and closed his hand around the five shanix he'd been about to fork over.
Swindle widened guileless purple optics at the bartender. "Okay, fifteen, but that's my last offer."
A multitude of high-performance vents huffed. The combined force was enough to rock Swindle's drink on the bartop. Both Tankors looked alarmed, ready to grab their glasses and retreat, but Blurr merely shut his vents in resignation to the free market. He shrugged with his optic ridges and dug back into the clean dishware.
Quite a few discreet bargains were struck that night. Privileged fingers reached over the counter to feel for their owners what that aerodynamic aft felt like. Some dipped their hands under the skirting for a chance at shiny, professionally-maintained ball-jointed hips, fingertips skating over their oil-slick, speed-sleek surfaces. Some just reached out to stroke the skirting itself. Blurr dislocated a significant number of fingers that grew too daring. Broken fingers were subsequently cradled against satisfied customers' chests.
Since Blurr got 55% of the deals and nobody died, Swindle considered it a profitable enterprise all around. Everyone enjoyed themselves, some more than others.
Blurr didn't really mind being touched. Swindle didn't really mind looking up.
Because after the bar closed, after Blurr raced circles around Swindle's larger altmode, after they arrived at the rundown building they shared, Blurr swept him up as they transformed to go inside. The taller mech carried him slung sidelong in his arms, endless legs taking the stairs three at a time as he pressed their forehelms together. Swindle smiled his broad, eager business smile, the smile of greed igniting at the sight of a luscious payday, and he ran the back of his fingers down the big mech's cheek. The impossibly white spread of his teeth making his optics wider and somehow more purple, glowing with the excited sparkle of getting everything for nothing, and Swindle leaned his forehelm into Blurr's.
Blue optics stared into gleaming purple, and Blurr lost himself in staring into those vast violet windows. Rubber scuffed as he fumbled to kick the door shut behind them, unwilling to put Swindle down or look away even for a moment. It stuck. Mumbled curses puffed against Swindle's lips as more kicking commenced.
The second Swindle felt Blurr's frustration peak, he slid one arm along the racer's shoulders, behind his neck but in front of the huge propulsion fans, and Blurr forgot about the door. It was more important to follow the hand cupping his jaw, turning him toward the small ex-weapons dealer taking up illegal residence in his arms.
"I'm going need to see a permit for selling aft in my bar," Blurr murmured between soft-mouthed kisses, their mouths sliding in lengthy, languorous contact over one another as if separation were a foreign concept. Pulling away to speak clearly would be too far. The air they drew it would be too cold if it weren't pushed out by one mech's vents and immediately pulled in by the other's. If Blurr weren't pressing into him, then Swindle would have to use the arm wrapped around his neck to keep him in place. As it was, neither knew who was holding whom into the embrace. It became a lazy capture, captor and captive entwined in bonds of arms and lips, keys and locks one and the same.
Swindle leaned his head against Blurr's shoulder and smiled, oddly narrow compared to his business expressions. "Unlawful detainment. I should call my lawyer." Blurr hummed an inquiry as the exposed neck was investigated for suspected criminal activity. Swindle's big optics squinched up in the centers, and his fingers curled against the back of the racer's helm. "Although I could...cooperate. For more favorable terms."
Swindle had more experience than he let on about convincing stern authority figures to look the other direction. Ultra Magnus had been more difficult to sway. Prowl had been rougher. Thunderclash...well, Swindle had sold the book rights for that one, 75/25 split. That legendary reputation was partially self-made, after all, and good ghostwriters were hard to find. Even harder to molest. Downright abysmal chances of wheedling free without conceding how the climactic ending came about.
All in all, Swindle was in favor of recreational frisking as opposed to the real deal. Especially when a sharp nip broke a gasp from him.
Blurr stopped. His lips moved against the dented cable. "Too hard?"
"Not into corporal punishment," Swindle said. Bending his head from side to side, he tried to stretch out the pain. It dulled down to an ache, but that was enough to bring him out of the warm haze of growing pleasure. "Ow."
"Sorry." Lips parted over the bitemark, and Blurr laved the rough spot with his tongue. Chemical receptors caught on the indents.
Swindle shuddered, arms suddenly tighter to push Blurr's face into his neck, and the racer burrowed closer, mouth closing gently over the mark he'd unintentionally left. This was a far better deal than anything under-the-table from an official source. Swindle's optics dimmed to smoky violent. He tipped his head back to open up more space for whatever Blurr wanted to do to him.
For a few minutes, the only sounds to be heard were the soft, wet smack of Blurr lavishing attention on that exposed neck. He moved from sucking on the bitemark to nibbling gently, ever-so-gently down the main conduit line. Back and forth, up and down, nuzzling between tubes and cables to single them out one by one. Pleasure spangled down his wires at the clouded moisture exhaled over sensitized circuits. It wasn't just the lick of Blurr's tongue catching on edges. It was the sheer care taken to find those edges and trace along them, gentler than a conmech could rightfully expect from anyone, much less an Autobot. An ex-Autobot, a former Wrecker, a racer and a bartender holding him like glass, touching him as if he'd break under less care.
Swindle's fans whirred quietly, although his breathing hitched noticeably as Blurr's mouth began to travel down across his collar armor, the utilitarian lines of his altmode's hood, seeking his headlights. A low moan broke his composure when Blurr found those. Lips wrapped around the rims, sliding along the curves. Blue optics looked up at him as he arched in strong arms, and lust burnt those optics a dark, intense indigo. He could feel the desire in them as a heavy weight behind a stroking hand.
"Better?"
"Weeeeeell, I could stand to have you make it up to me a bit more..."
The bargaining tone made Blurr grin, lips sliding up to whisper against taut neck linkages, "I was thinking of reparation."
Swindle pulled his arm loose and pushed at Blurr's headfin until the mech looked him in the face. Terms and conditions were his kind of language, the sort of intimacy that required brushing the tips of their noses together as he gazed deep into Blurr's optics. "Are we talking property damage or bruised feelings?"
Blurr's optics lightened with mischief. He broke optic contact to nuzzle under his chin and kiss along his jaw. "More along the lines of disciplinary action."
"Oh." The fingers absently stroking Blurr's headfin stilled. The small print on this one revved his engine. "Ohhh. Wrecker in restraints?"
"For your safety." Blurr stopped licking down his neck in order to jerk his head meaningfully toward the neglected bed. "Handcuffs, at the very least."
"Blindfold. Because, y'know," Swindle bumped their forehelms together, grinning wildly as his optics glittered, "justice is blind."
Blurr chewed his bottom lip for a moment, searching those too-innocent purple optics. They were so wide and earnest on the sparkling surface, but their murky depths were full of sly plans. Merchant, weapons dealer, ex-Decepticon, and conmech to the core, but curled close and purring in a pretty package of dangerous history and current good intentions. It was worth the risk of admitting, "I kind of want to try leg restraints."
Swindle stared blankly at him. Shock wiped the playful smirk off his whole face, leaving his optics huge and hyper-expressive mouth slack. The immense amount of trust implied in the racer-turned-bartender even saying that floored him. Blurr was nothing without his speed. If he couldn't run, who was he?
Word were difficult to find. Swindle chose them as cautiously as a scout venturing into a minefield. "Do you mean a spreader bar?"
Blurr's vents huffed. "I...no. Nothing hard."
Loud as Blurr's vents were, Swindle's fans spun louder. He built pictures in his mind, striking out the cuffs, chains, and spreader bars. "Tie you spread-eagled to the bed, maybe." A good image. All the height Blurr had would be for naught if he was flat on his back.
Blurr swallowed a mouthful of unease. "I had an idea, uh. Like when they used to load us into the transports to drive us away after the races, we weren't always," the hand under Swindle's knees gestured vaguely, "all there. Our heads weren't off the race track yet. We were usually in pain, too, and getting us prepped for post-race repairs meant the track medics had to treat us without pain patches." Swindle cocked his head quizzically, and Blurr gave him an awkward smile. "Sometimes the pain startled us. Running a race inside a transport van doesn't really work, but once one racer's off the block, we all sprint after. It's code-level instinct."
"So." Another vague gesture, this time down at his feet. "They'd hobble us."
"Hobbles," Swindle repeated, skeptical.
"Hobbles. Soft ones. Just to tether our legs and keep us from taking a full stride." Blurr shifted on his feet as if he could feel them now. "It felt restrictive, but it wasn't - " Scary, he didn't say. Frightening. It didn't feel like he'd be trapped in a bodily prison of crippled legs, which for him was the ultimate fear, the worst torture. Soft hobbles wound through his wheels had enough give to calm the worst of the panic, but they wouldn't let him run.
Swindle waited a moment, but it was clear Blurr wouldn't finish the sentence. All the things left unsaid were blatantly obvious to anyone who could peel back a layer of Blurr's confidence, however, and he studied the racer closely. They could do this, but the question was whether or not they should.
It was a trust he wasn't sure he deserved, and a closeness as frightening to him as losing speed was to Blurr. Once someone slipped too close, inserted themselves into his core, there was the risk that he wouldn't be able to detach again. Letting Blurr trust him felt as though the trust would turn mutual. Reciprocation hadn't been in any of his plans. He'd been compromising for so long he hadn't seen the corner until he was backed into it.
Blurr's arms tightened, pressing Swindle in to his chest, and the racer dipped to claim another kiss. The soft, breathing cycle of unbroken touch and little skipped, hitching noises started once more, but conflict swam in the back of brilliant purple optics. They dimmed to black, hiding a business mech's uncertainty. He wondered with a hint of desperation when this had become something he couldn't quantify in professional terms. They bought each other's bodies through lust and desire, the measurable rise and fall of shared charge. He couldn't measure emotions. He couldn't barter for equal give and take, and without things to add or subtract, what were they bargaining over?
The money was down on Swindle's level. That's where he made it. That's where he belonged.
But Blurr carried him here, swept up to a higher standard, and Swindle was suddenly afraid of how far he'd fall.
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