Title: Aesthetics
Warning: Silliness. Vague sex stuff. People really trying to get laid. Dubcon that isn't, due to the aforementioned attempts to get laid.
Rating: PG-13
Continuity: G1
Characters: Blast Off, Astrotrain, Blitzwing, Skyfire, Vortex
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): An "I think I'm ugly" kinkmeme request ( . ?thread=14906773#t14906773)
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Pt. 3: Confusion. What everyone else sees going on.
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Beauty, among Decepticons, seemed to have a direct correlation with cruelty. The prettier a mech, the crueler he was. Starscream was some kind of case study for that science. Generally voted the most gorgeous mech in the ranks, his berth also topped the vote for what the Decepticons would run the other way from. Just for him, Swindle had added the category 'Would Rather Fight Optimus Prime 1-on-1' for the date night vote.
They'd still frag him, given half a chance. They'd just immediately throw themselves into a pit of Sharkicons to avoid whatever he planned for them afterward.
The latest beauty to turn up on Earth had all the hallmarks of continuing the legacy. He crushed their sparks underfoot effortlessly. Primus save them, but they were lining up for the privilege. They'd had ages to get used to Starscream, after all. Vortex showed up out of nowhere to tease their libidos to begging.
"To tradition," Thundercracker said dryly, hoisting his cube, and the table echoed the toast at a low grumble. Even Soundwave stirred himself to clink their cubes together. Nobody took their optics off the lone occupant of the table in the far corner of the common room.
Bare rotor blades flicked. Exposed mechanisms whirred. Soundwave's vents opened wider, visibly drawing in cool air. His enhanced audios gave him every click and clank of swash plate and hinge, letting him record a sinful symphony of metallic intimacy. He provided those recordings for a small fee. Half the mechs at the table right now paid a monthly subscription for downloads of those audio files. The other half paid either the Cassetticons or Reflector for images and videos of Vortex doing...whatever. Anything.
It didn't matter what he was doing. They wanted to see him do it. The Combaticon was a walking pin-up model, and the base's collective sparks fluttered whenever he turned his back. Their equipment tightened into twisty coils behind their panels, too. He showed up, and everyone's core temperature rose. They'd watch him on monitor duty all day if that's what was available, because every shift in his chair stuttered their fans.
The Cassetticons had pranked him once, at risk of life and limb. He was a violence-hungry Decepticon just like the rest of them. He hadn't taken getting drenched in orange paint well at all, and Soundwave had been forced to intervene to save Frenzy and Rumble from a maddened, orange-streaked interrogator on a rampage. The other Decepticons had laughed somewhat breathlessly at the flared rotor blades and unhinged violence. It'd turned to unabashed moaning when the second half of the prank paid off.
Laserbeak, in the washrack, recording. Dear holy interfacing aids had mechs paid out the manifolds for that video. It was so fragging rare that they got to watch him without the act in place!
The cogsucking tease knew exactly what he was doing to them. He held the whole base on tenterhooks dancing about trying to get a decent look at his pretty rotor assembly. Even here in the common room, he coyly kept his back to the wall while he took his ration. He sat there at his table all alone for half an hour at a time, visor down but for measuring looks around the room, letting the anticipation build as he flicked his rotor blades in flirty spurts of movement. When he judged everyone's attention sufficiently locked on the glimpses of rotor blades moving behind his shoulders, he stood up.
It happened like clockwork. The Vortex Fanclub assembled at the table today leaned forward right on cue, mouths drooping slightly open and optics glazed. Vortex stood up, shuffling around the table to maximize the amount of time facing them, hiding the real treasures, and then -
Bam. Flashed.
Skywarp made a little sound, a needy little sound like his intakes closed so hard they attempted to invert. Reflector's shutter snapped with the sound of a machine gun on full automatic.
Vortex didn't just flash the exposed rotor assembly on his back, oh no. He hunched his shoulders in a fashion-model moue to really show it off. It was the equivalent of a woman not just pulling up her skirt to show off her garters, but giving a full-on glimpse at her lack of panties. Thundercracker bit his lower lip in hungry lust at the gleam of open machinery. It was practically obscene. None of that should be seen. Vortex's entire back painted him openly, nakedly vulnerable, all long blades and achingly sleek pins turning in a complicated apparatus that should be tucked under armor. Everyone at the table clenched their hands into fists or held onto their chairs to resist temptation. It'd be so easy to reach out and pet those long blades.
Bonecrusher's ration cube cracked, spilling energon across the table. Nobody noticed.
They were too captivated by the slight jog quivering down slender blades as Vortex eased around a chair. The idea of having one's propulsion system hanging out in the open like this was both scandalous and charge-inducing. Then, on top of that, it was a vertical propulsion system. A rotary system, as uncommon as jets were common, and the internal hardware was laid out for one and all to see. Optics and visors went pained from the sudden pulse of charge. Imagining it wasn't enough. Seeing it in person had the table spellbound.
The sight was startling, shockingly improper, just this side of outright fondling interface cables in public. That would have been enough to have them panting, but there was more. Primus save them, there was more. The tiny sounds of a rotary assembly underlay every move Vortex made. Nobody present had ever heard those noises until Vortex arrived on Earth, and they couldn't unheard it now. Without armor in the way to muffle it, the mech's rotary assembly made more noise than seemed physically possible, and Soundwave recorded every scraping clink. Dirge was already forwarding Soundwave his account information to buy today's gloriously sexy racket. Thundercracker was seriously considering doing the same. He could jack off to that. He already had. Somebody's engine was turning over right now, they were getting off so hard on it.
Four jets, two audio/visual specialists, and a Constructicon stared hot enough to smelt metal at the lewd sight of an Earth-made altmode that turned casual interest into burning arousal. Rotaries were fairly rare flightframes back on Cybertron, trick-flyers and supply convoy personnel. Scarcity had made them exotic among the Decepticons, but enter humanity's version of a helicopter, and exotic became erotic. Exit any form of dignity. The Decepticons trapped in close proximity with that altmode had no choice but to worship the minor deity of lust dwelling in their base. Vortex wore his propulsion system on the outside, and it was smoking hot.
Skywarp made a whimpering sound. Thundercracker could tell it was a stifled moan. Naked rotor blades, clean and long and delicately, deceptively slim, whirled a quick circle. They were sharp enough to slice air to ribbons. The Seekers couldn't help but compare them to their own wings, and they were amazingly small. Thin, mobile, and exposed. Everyone leaned forward, fixated on the twitch of gears and cogs - they could see it all! - and Vortex clearly felt their heavy, charge-addled gazes on his back. The blades turned again as if to pinion their attention until he peered over his shoulder and caught them staring.
Gaping, really. "Nice flying weather lately!" Thundercracker yelped a bit shrilly. It almost hurt to yank his optics to his wingmate. "Right?!"
"Uh-huh." Skywarp's reply wasn't terribly coherent, but at least he wasn't dribbling on the table. "Weather. Nice." He wiped his chin.
"Very nice!"
"Sure..."
Vortex gave them a knowing blink before primly stalking from the common room, offended by their blatant admiration. His rotor blades quivered with every step. Fans hitched in time. Nobody vented out until he was out of sight.
"He is such a tease," Thrust groaned. He fell forward and thunked his head on the table. "Why's he gotta be like that?"
"Tradition," Thundercracker sighed. He threw back the rest of his ration and tried to bring his fans back under control. "You saw what he did to Motormaster. He's just waiting to cut us off at the knees."
Even Soundwave nodded morosely. Then again, Soundwave probably understood best of all of them what kind of sadistic delight the Combaticon took in twisting the dagger of attraction in deep. Every time Vortex sent in a reformat request complaining about how he looked, Soundwave had to write the rejection, and he had long ago run out of tactful, professional wording for, "You don't need to be reformatted; you're already the sexiest mech this side of the Milky Way." Now he just blocked attachments from the 'copter, hoping the Combaticon would find someone else to reassure him he was the most gorgeous thing around.
Soundwave knew better than to think complimenting Vortex established any sort of connection between them. He'd been the one to post the warning for those who hadn't witnessed Vortex's public humiliation of Motormaster. Thundercracker knew he personally wouldn't forget the night Vortex bounced in, rotor blades spinning hypnotic allure. He'd been happiest anyone had ever seen him as he made a beeline for the Stunticon table. Motormaster had seen him coming and had just enough time to look alarmed before a lapful of rotary plopped down on top of him.
"So," Vortex had purred, sixteen types of overdone mocking seduction painted across his voice and visor as he twined his arms around Motormaster's helm cowl, "what was that about doing me in front of everyone? I'm here. They're here. I believe you've got the bearings to clang me on the table!"
Cruel excitement had met embarrassed, sputtering rage. Motormaster's systems had flushed so much coolant he'd actually dropped several degrees on thermal scans. Absolutely confident, Vortex had made himself at home in the stunned Stunticon's lap, grinding against him in showy lust without a sliver of reality behind the spectacle. Everybody, everybody knew a mech like Motormaster didn't stand a chance with somebody like Vortex.
Frag, the one and only time Motormaster laid a hand on Vortex directly, the helicopter had reportedly been two seconds from taking that hand off at the wrist. Breakdown had told the rest of the Decepticons, "He froze up. Fzzzt, full stop! I didn't dare look at either of them. Swear by the interstate, I thought he'd murder us all."
The other Stunticons still hadn't forgiven their commander for getting their 'facing privileges cut off cold. They'd had Vortex and Brawl for a while, there, which was the best of land and sky as far as they were concerned. They'd been the envy of the Decepticons. Then Motormaster had touched Vortex, and Vortex had refused to come back after that.
Everybody had taken the lesson to spark: don't touch the pretty rotor blades unless the pretty rotor blades give you permission to touch, or that's the last you'll see of the pretty-pretties.
Which was why Motormaster had flushed, cooled, stammered a stunned babble of vowels that meant nothing much, and suddenly stood, dumping the purring rotary to the floor. Without, everyone noticed, touching a single rotor blade. He really didn't have the bearings to pet Vortex, not after that lesson. Not even with the mech egging him on, just daring him to try something, anything. Motormaster was a lot of things, but he wasn't stupid.
The common room had cracked up at him. Vortex had sprawled on the floor in an indecent display that Motormaster practically fled from, and the Decepticons howled laughter. Not that they could blame the Stunticon for storming off in a humiliated huff, since that really had been a cruel trick. The mech didn't meet Vortex's standards in the slightest. He knew it, and Vortex had shown his real colors rubbing Motormaster's face in his inadequacies that way.
Nobody quite knew what standards Vortex had, but they were apparently astronomical. Vortex had his gestaltmate screen his lays, believe it or not. Vortex was so skittish about who deserved his attention, he ignored anyone who tried to approach him, shoving his tank teammate between him and potential suitors. He looked at anyone who tried to skip Brawl like they were crazy. The whole faction knew to approach Brawl if they wanted a chance at the base beauty, and it'd only happen if Brawl gave them a pass.
Woe betide a Decepticon who didn't interface with Brawl first. Thundercracker vividly remembered the scathing look Vortex had turned on him for attempting to drag the 'copter down onto the berth. "What?" he'd asked.
"Rude?" Vortex had asked right back. He'd slid out of Thundercracker's grasp and behind Brawl. "It's not my berth, mech."
Brawl had laughed it off. "Aw, c'mon, I don't mind!"
Vortex laughed high and shrill, a giggle holding all the contempt of a true beauty toward an overeager suitor. Thundercracker hadn't been able to stop a shamed flinch. "We all know who he's here for," the 'copter had said, voice thick with scorn. "Let's not make things more awkward, huh?"
Brawl had hesitated, thinking that over. Slowly. "Uh…okay?"
"Right." Vortex had nudged Brawl in the small of the back, pushing him toward the Seeker squirming in heated embarrassment on the berth.
Lesson learned, Thundercracker had kept his hands on Brawl after that. It wasn't a difficult task. Brawl wasn't a bad consolation prize. He was fairly cute for a grounder, with that turret and the treads, and Thundercracker had to admit having Vortex watch them frag had gotten his systems riled. It was the most bizarre version of an audition he'd ever gone through, but oh.
Ohhhh, it'd been worth it. Vortex had judged his performance with Brawl worthy, it seemed, and Thundercracker remembered the blissful interface afterward in loving, multiple-files-saved detail.
Most of the Earth crew had similar files saved. Vortex made access difficult, but he made the prize worth the hassle of getting it. There wasn't a Decepticon aboard who didn't vote for Vortex as the best lover available. Blowing circuits wasn't enough. Vortex seemed to take pride in how high he could build the charge before letting the breakers finally snap, drawing it out until mechs begged and sobbed, clutching at him as he fingered their ports, explored their altmode kibble, and slowly, ever-so-slowly unkinked their interface cords, breathing gentle torture over their input jacks. There was a distinct wobble in his lovers' knees the next day, if one knew to look for it, and everyone looked. Swapping whispered tales of the night before was a time-honored tradition, serialized and spread among the crew by an anonymous narrator.
Thundercracker had the series downloaded. Guaranteed, he'd be in his bunk tonight reading his favorite story, listening to Soundwave's raunchy recording of Vortex's intimate sounds, jacking off in the dark until his joints bled sparks. He wouldn't be alone. Skywarp pushed back from the table, optics alight, and Thundercracker knew where he was off to. Any other Decepticon put on a show like that, and the crowd in the common room would be hustling double-time to chase his aft. The group jostling through the door at the moment wouldn't be running after Vortex, however. They'd be finding somewhere marginally more private to take care of the surge of lust his coy little act sent through them, every time.
The closest any of them would be getting to Vortex anymore was a story, a picture, a creak of an assembly they dreamed about when pulling their own cables. It was the cruelty only someone that beautiful could inflict on his watchers.
"To tradition," Soundwave said, and Thundercracker nodded.
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