[* * * * *]

Krok & Fulcrum - "Spanking"

[* * * * *]

Clemency was far behind them, over and done with.

Mostly. There was still the small matter of Fulcrum lying to a superior officer. Ragtag group the Scavengers might have been, but they were still a military unit. Getting caught out pulling something over on a superior officer carried consequences, and quite frankly? If Krok didn't carry out some form of discipline on the K-Con, the rest of the unit would gang up and inflict their own.

That didn't mean Fulcrum was going to submit gracefully. "You'd have handed me over to the D.J.D.," he protested, one hand to the side of his head and the other outstretched as if to indicate how obvious that choice would have been.

Krok just leaned against the wall and looked at him levelly. "Would I have?"

The technician fidgeted under that flat look, reminded all over again of the stubborn, twisted loyalty of this bizarre bunch of Decepticons. Crankcase, determined that they had more of a right to the badge than the D.J.D.; Misfire, trying to save Krok; Flywheels, praying for them all; Spinister, putting them back together.

And Krok, who could have turned him over to the D.J.D. as soon as Tarn gave his lie away. Who could have, but didn't. Who'd instead chosen to consider it too late, and taken a stand against the D.J.D.

Fulcrum looked away first. "…yeah, okay." Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe Krok wouldn't have turned him in. But slaggit, he'd known these mechs for less than a week at that point. Expecting them to side with him was moving a bit fast on the trust scale. Frag, for Decepticons? It was inconceivably speedy.

So why did he feel guilty about lying?

He folded his arms tightly and looked determinedly at the nearest computer. Computers were still the most reliable things in his world. They were so much easier to deal with than real people. "Alright. I lied," he bit out. "What's my sentence to be?" He hadn't faced the consequences of crossing a superior officer since he'd become one. Even before that, he'd tried to avoid confrontations. Getting backed into a corner by the D.J.D. was apparently what it took to bring out the steel in his back struts, because he was well aware that he'd deserved that cowardice sentence. He didn't like trouble.

"Normally, it'd be thirty lashes with an electrowhip," Krok said like it was obvious, and the K-Con's tank valves suddenly spiraled wide as terror bulldozed him. Fuel flooded his body, priming him for fight or flight. "You're not exactly the sturdiest of mechs, however," his commanding officer continued, eyeing him critically. "Thirty might be a bit…harsh."

Fulcrum nodded weakly, left optic twitching. Thirty lashes?! He was a technician. He'd been sent to the stockade once, and the five lashes he'd gotten for being overcharged on duty had lacerated his plating. Frag, the unpowered prisoner-crops the Styx guards had used on him had left him unable to transform for the dents. He'd be nothing but burn marks and agony if Krok punished him with thirty lashes!

The larger Decepticon shook his head. "K-Class reformatting or not, you're not going to hold up under an electrowhip. Now, my second choice would be scutwork shifts but," he shrugged, "to be honest, we're all pulling those." The W.A.P. was held together by rubber bands and sticky tape. They were welding her together daily, it seemed. "Fortunately, having Misfire under my command has given me experience making up nonstandard punishments." Krok seemed oddly satisfied by this, although Fulcrum immediately tensed until his cables threatened to snap. A glitter of evil humor lit the officer's optics. It did nothing to reassure the techie.

Krok straightened, pushing off the wall to stand tall and imposing over the smaller mech. "Fulcrum, you are charged with lying to a superior officer. I have found you guilty of disrespect." Because trial by a jury of peers only happened in Autobot justice. Really, who wanted a jury of Decepticons holding his fate in their hands? "How do you plead?" Pleading happened after a decision had been reached, obviously. That's when it could be applied toward softening potential punishments.

A nervous swallow, and Fulcrum came to attention in front of his judge and jury. After witnessing several of these kind of trials - and going through his own - he knew the formalities. This was a far kinder officer than those he'd stood before previously. At least Krok didn't have the bailiff dangle the plaintiff from one fist during the trial. "Guilty as charged, sir. I plead extenuating circumstances and," his voice dropped, "for the record, I regret my crime."

His C.O. didn't look kind right now. In fact, red optics cooled noticeably as Krok stepped forward to look down at his newest subordinate. "Regret changes nothing. Because of your lie, one of my unit has been killed in action, and the rest are on the casualty list." Including Krok himself, as his own injuries were still fresh. Fulcrum was so screwed. "Your sentence should be carried out to the full extent the regs allow, from the march to the brig to stripping the armor from your back before the whipping." The K-Con jolted, optics huge. That was even worse! "You should be beaten the full number of lashes and left to make your recovery on your own."

By now, Fulcrum's fans had faltered as terror shut them down. The smaller mech stood shaking before his commanding officer, and the only reason he didn't turn and bolt was because he knew he wasn't quick enough to escape. Besides, where could he go? The W.A.P. was too small to hide in the ceilings forever.

"However," Krok finally relented, letting a bit of compassion and good-humor return to his gaze now that he'd thoroughly scared the K-Con, "your plea of circumstances is valid. For the current circumstances, admittedly, but that's still valid." Hope lit Fulcrum's face despite himself. "Beyond which, Spinister probably wouldn't be able to reassemble you again if you took thirty lashes. Due to your comparatively frail frametype," the technician flinched in humiliation at the jab but didn't try to deny the facts, "a lighter sentence of fewer lashes would also leave you useless." Krok sighed. "Spinister would be pissy for days if he had to repair you again, anyway."

Hallelujah and all hail Lord Megatron. The slender Decepticon had never in his life been so glad for his technician frame.

"So you tell me, Fulcrum," his commander demanded. "What punishment should you receive?"

Was he really being asked to set his own sentence? "A strong reprimand and a slap on the wrist?" he suggested, smile rather forced.

"Has that ever worked?"

The smile wilted. "It would on me."

"Mhmm. No," Krok said thoughtfully, "I think this calls for something more severe." That didn't sound good. That didn't sound good at all. "Fall in, Fulcrum." The officer turned and walked down the corridor, confident that Fulcrum would follow orders.

Like he had a choice? Fulcrum trailed after him meekly.

The shakes returned when Krok keyed the captain's quarter open. The W.A.P. was too small to have a proper brig. Disciplinary procedures were carried out by the captain or in the captain's presence, and therefore the disciplinary tool rack took up a corner of his quarters. It was as small as the crew it was meant to keep in line, but right now, it looked absolutely huge and sinister to the poor K-Con led to stand before it.

"Let me make this perfectly clear," Krok rumbled, looming over his most troublesome 'Con, who promptly snapped back to attention under his narrow regard. "I don't give second chances. You lie to me again, and I'll whip your plating to slag." Just to make a point, he picked the flexible length of the electrowhip off the rack. It hummed when he switched it on, and the deft flick he gave it spoke of experience wielding the tool. Fulcrum's wide optics fixated on the glowing length. "I'll deal with Spinister's grousing if it comes to that. We clear?"

Flick-snap-zap!

"Crystal," Fulcrum managed, hoarse and sincere. "No more lies, sir." Well, not lies that he'd get caught out on. He was a Decepticon, after all.

He stayed tense until the electrowhip was deactivated and laid back on the rack. He deserved punishment, but he would prefer not that variety. "Good. As long as we understand each other." Krok patted the electrowhip lightly, message delivered. Decepticon hierarchy, broken down to terms even Grimlock could understand: 'me officer, you grunt.'

Decent guy Krok might be, but the old Decepticon adage still rang true: all officers were bastards.

…it really sucked, being demoted.

Fulcrum avoided looking at the rack. There were worse fates than demotion. He'd survived one. Living under the heel of a strict officer wasn't so bad in comparison.

Said strict officer walked back across the room to the desk. He pulled the chair out from behind it and positioned it to one side, clear of both the berth and desk. Then he sat down, but he did so somewhat oddly. Fulcrum hadn't dared move from where he stood at attention, but he frowned absently as he watched Krok shift about. The bigger 'Con sat with one knee pointing straight forward but the other angled to the side. It'd have looked casual if it weren't so deliberate. What was he doing?

"Your sentence," Krok said calmly, "is a spanking."

Wait, what?

"What?"

One big hand patted a thigh. "You heard me."

The K-Con blinked. He blinked again. He reset his entire optical system, and his audios for good measure. "I…what? Are you serious?"

"Your armor isn't meant to stand up to combat. Your frame has been reformatted, but it's still not meant for battle. I could outright beat you, but I have a feeling that a punch would knock you out if I threw it full force." Krok's optics narrowed. Fulcrum had been rendered speechless, falling out of attention to gaped in open shock at his commander. "I can't afford to take you off-shift long enough to serve a sentence of imprisonment, even if we had a place to put you. We're already on short rations, so it's pointless to cut you down further. That leaves me this. You will not be harmed outside of a few dents and paint scrapes, but the point will be driven home. Now get over here." His optic slitted further when the K-Con made no move to obey. "Unless you'd prefer the electrowhip…"

All it took was one motion as if the officer were about to rise. "N-no! That's - okay, it's weird, and - and I don't even know. Um." Fulcrum skittered a few steps forward, optics darting around anxiously but refusing to look at Krok. "It's a bit, er, kinky. Isn't it? I mean, well. You know." He was babbling like Misfire, but he sort of had an excuse. It wasn't every day his superior officer proclaimed a smack on the aft a disciplinary procedure.

The last time someone had smacked him on the aft, it'd been more of an encouragement than any form of discipline. Fulcrum usually saw that kind of thing as sort of sexy, to be honest. Picturing Krok, who had a lot of admirable but not very sexy characteristics, holding him down and molesting him was - it really shouldn't be flustering him, but it totally was.

This situation was all kinds of wrong.

"This is not 'kinky,'" Krok said sternly. "This is not sexual, nor will I tolerate the suggestion that it is. This is punishment calculated to cause the least amount of disruption to the rest of the unit. It will cause you emotional and physical distress without undue lingering aftereffects."

Oh. Uh, putting it that way sure poured a cold dose of reality down the back struts.

"Fulcrum. Come here."

"Yessir," the techie mumbled, slouching his way across the room to stand before Krok. He hesitated, shamefaced, looking between the hand patting one big thigh and the uncompromising expression in his commander's optics. He couldn't actually meet Krok's optics for any length of time. The mech was expecting him to - he had to - wow. Well, this was awkward. "How…how should I..?"

"Bend over my knee," the larger Decepticon ordered. His voice had absolutely no give, and he gestured with his free hand. "Head this way. Hands flat on the floor."

Fulcrum lowered his optics and nodded mutely, but he kept hesitating. There was just no graceful way to sidle over to one's commanding officer and bend over his knee. There wasn't even a chance of retaining his dignity going into this. The paltry leftover scraps would dissolve into shrieking mortification soon after, he could tell.

So this was what Krok had meant by 'emotional distress.' A sense of dread settled in his tanks for what that might mean for 'physical distress.' This wasn't going to be sexy-type spanking.

A minute went by. It was full of fidgeting and aborted steps toward Krok.

Who gave his K-Class coward half a minute more of shuffling in place before glaring. "Fulcrum."

The technician blurted out, "Look, this is ridiculous. You can't seriously mean to s-spank me." He threw his hands up, flustered and hiding it under annoyed exasperation. "If this is just a way to make me apologize, fine! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to drag you into a fight with the D.J.D., and I definitely didn't mean to get Flywheels killed! I-I mean, it's not like a really lied if you think about it. All I did was, er, not confess. Which is common sense, really, because I barely know any of you now, much less back then. So I'm sorry, and it won't happen again…ah. Two?"

The fingers being held up went back down to tap against Krok's thigh. "Two. As in, your sentence just doubled." Fulcrum stared. His throat tubing convulsed in a nervous swallow. "Want to make that three, Fulcrum? My hand is armored more heavily than your skidplate. Guess which one will break first?" There wasn't much guesswork involved in that question. The slender 'Con swallowed again. "No? Then bend over my knee before I lose what little patience I have left."

Fulcrum bit his lip and looked to one side.

"Now!"

He stumbled forward hastily, but stopped at Krok's side feeling at a complete loss. This would be so much easier if the officer would just grab him and mechhandle him into position. It'd still be horribly embarrassing, but at least it wouldn't be so awkward. That was probably the point, however, and he really, really didn't want triple the punishment. He didn't want any of this, but three times the awkward would only make this more terrible.

A hissing sound of pure embarrassment escaped from between his teeth as Fulcrum forced himself to obey.

It wasn't just the humiliation of presenting his aft for what amounted to aggressive slapping from his new C.O. No, it was how incredibly awkward the logistics of it were. He was shorter than Krok, but still too tall to just fold over and grab his ankles around the mech's leg. Instead, he had to lower himself toward the floor a bit, demi-kneeling until his palms and mid-riff rested on the pale yellow thigh. Then came bending forward, which was just - just demeaning. The larger mech didn't move to help at all. This was obviously all on Fulcrum. Crawling insects of shame wormed through his innards from where their plating touched, and he studiously kept his optics down as he rested enough of his weight on Krok's leg that he balanced.

Once he wasn't about to faceplant, he reluctantly bent farther down. His arms came up, reaching down between his commander's legs until he could put his hands on the floor and…ugh. Moment of truth. He pushed up with his legs. That transferred most his weight to laying across Krok's thigh or being supported by his hands. His aft was now his highest point.

Now, at last, Krok deigned to get involved. He pushed the technician a bit, rearranging him closer to his armored knee-spar. "Straighten your legs more."

Could this get any worse? Fulcrum's fuel lines were pumping a thousand tiny pattering beads of humiliation through him, bursting unpredictably throughout every part of his body. They filled him with minor explosions of sheer disgrace. He shut off his optics and straightened his slagging legs as ordered. That put him so far over Krok's knee that he was practically doing a handstand on the other side.

It also put the back of his thighs in Krok's lap, and they were what the strategist's big hand came down on first.

Fulcrum jerked up and whined at the first hit, but there was suddenly an arm across his lower back. It pushed him back down before he realized he'd tried to scramble away, and Krok was strong. When the officer's other leg moved to press down on his back as well, Fulcrum was well and truly pinned. The technician could only jerk in place when the second blow fell. He whined again and tried to relax, letting the spurt of pain wash through him. Fighting it wouldn't help. He overrode his vocalizer manually, a little surprised that he had to. He'd known that this wasn't going to be the kinky kind of spanking, but he hadn't precisely known what to expect of it other than 'exceedingly humiliating.'

Mark spanking down as rather painful as well, apparently. Krok's hand cracked down over and over again, smacking at an unbroken rhythm that went after every single micron of his plating from mid-thigh to mid-aft. The officer's hand came down hard, not fast and not slow. Fast enough that he didn't have time to recover between spanks, but slow enough that his plating sprang back into place, releasing compressed sensors just in time for the next punishing blow. And, oh, did it hurt.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Whap! Whap! Clang. Clang. Clang.

The K-Con screwed his face up, impressive chin set stubbornly, but the gasp of air in and out of his vents gave away what his muted vocalizer didn't. He didn't have shock absorbers horizontally in his legs; his main leg struts had inbuilt vertical shock absorbers to take impact, of course, but the steady rain of spanks were hitting across the back of his thigh plating. Krok's hand came down on his thighs, mashing the sensor network underneath with broad, heavy clangs. The impacts sent errors blaring over the network, blitzing his cortex with an intensity that could only register as severe pain. There was no altmode armor to take the impact there. There was nothing to act as a cushion between the metal plating and attached circuitry.

After a while, even the fuel lines and lubricant tubing ached in their brackets. The jolting impacts rattled all the way to his knees and up his back, and it was sensitizing everything on the way as electrical conduits cut off and opened with every blow. The interrupted flow sensitized his circuitry too much, because the ache kept growing. Aching became error warnings. What else could his CPU interpret repeated impacts as but an attack? Fulcrum knew the spanking was scraping his paint and scratching his plating up something awful, but the potential damage was limited to dents. Maybe a popped sensor node or two if Krok kept whacking the plating down so heavily. A crushed ego didn't count as a real injury.

However, his sensory network didn't know that. His sensors pulsed at their limits, systematically abused, and throwing increasing pain at his mind was only way his sensory network could convey what it saw as danger of real damage.

Clang. Whap! Whap! Clang. Clang. Clang.

The gasps came in time with the smacking. They got louder as Fulcrum's systems cycled air in larger pants between hits, trying to cool pain-riled systems. The first squeak that got past his vocalizer's manual shutdown was nearly inaudible under the gasping. Krok's hand angled ever fourth or fifth spank, almost scooping upward to whack against the bottom edge of Fulcrum's skidplate. One whack on the left side, one whack on the right, and the gasps couldn't hide the squeaked cries for very long. The officer had just the right angle to clip the underside of each hip's ball joint. There was enough force behind each spank that the ball joints rocked in their sockets, and that really hurt.

Clang-squeak. Clang-squeak. Whap! ~whimper~ Whap!-gasp-pant-pant. Clang-squeak. Clang-squeak. Clang-grunt.

As lockdown failed, the involuntary squeaking sounds deepened to his natural voice. That was only more humiliating, because he couldn't stop making them. The hand smacking him stopped abusing his upper thighs in order to concentrate on those scooping blows to the bottom edges of his skidplate that had him clenching his jaw and whining behind his teeth. His entire aft pounded in sympathetic, transmitted pain as electricity cut off and released, cut off and released. Fire burnt under his plating, flaming up where Krok's hand came down and licking further out until his aft felt hot, intolerably, excruciatingly hot. The heat seared him as hard cracks systematically lit up every sensor hidden beneath his plating. No sensor was left untended. Krok found every single one.

Fulcrum's hands alternated between clawing at the floor and tightening into shaking fists, and this hurt. This hurt so bad he could barely stand it. He couldn't stand it, but struggling got him nowhere with the larger Decepticon pinning him face-down like this! The hand kept coming down, clipping his hip joints and jarring his entire pelvic span. It clapped metal plating to over-sensitive internal machinery in sharp bangs that had his vocalizer spitting static between short, panting cries. The rest of his circuitry throbbed as the excess pain data started to spill throughout his sensor network.

Humiliation and pain shot through him with every spank, and he couldn't block it out. He couldn't settle into a rhythm, because Krok's hand kept finding that perfect angle to make him wince and buck again and again. Piercing discomfort shifted his weight around on that yellow thigh like his aft was some kind of moving target that Krok had to put extra effort into holding down and whaling away on. The forearm pressing on his back clamped down, and the spanking picked up.

The increased force rocked him forward, his whole body shrilling protest at the hot fire raced over his abused network. He had to brace his hands flat on the floor to keep from being shoved face-first into it. The technician rocked back into place and met Krok's hand coming down.

Dear holy Primus, that hurt!

"Stop!" he cried out, jolting with every spank, but of course Krok didn't. Fulcrum hadn't believed the officer would, but once he opened his mouth, the stream of small sounds and incoherent, vaguely-pleading noises just kept tumbling out.

This was discipline, improvised though it was, and it wouldn't be finished until it was over. There was no mercy among Decepticons. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew this was still better than the electrowhip would have been. That didn't change the fact that after every few blows came that extra-punishing, extra-hard spank where the flat of Krok's palm hit just right to make Fulcrum writhe and kick, knees jerking on instinct.

Whap! ~whimper-whine~Whap!~squeeeal! Whap!-pant-gasp-pant. Clang-squeak! Clang~whimper~

But Krok held him securely. Head down and pinned in place, Fulcrum dropped his head between his braced arms and quivered under the spanking. That terrible, punishing hand went back to delivering hard smacks to his thighs, and the short rest only made his sensors scream all the more. Krok actually lightened his blows for a minute, and Fulcrum squirmed and struggled because he knew what the mech was doing. He knew. His ventilation system hiccupped and moaned helplessly. Dread built up under Fulcrum's chestplate, but there was nowhere to go as the slide and rub of Krok's hand tweaked abused sensors.

They fine-tuned to the officer's touch, transmitting every iota of pressure data until the sensation drilled directly into Fulcrum's brain module. The pain sang silver and molten under his plating, expertly coaxed to climb to that aching plateau where the next strike would be a culmination of all the pain before it. Krok could tell exactly what the teasing, stinging spanks of his fingertips were doing to the K-Con.

It worked, too. Thwack!

"Aaaugh!" Fulcrum's little noises had gained volume in surges as he lost control, but this time he gave a full-throated yell as his limbs flailed. "Stop! Stop! Please!"

"That's one," Krok said calmly over the steady smacks and Fulcrum's pleading. "Half your sentence is done with."

He bent back to work, ignoring the squeals, shrieks, and gasps. Next time, Fulcrum would think twice before lying to him.

[* * * * *]