Title: Call of Duty
Warning: Porn and pornstars. Power imbalance? Fantasies and libidos spinning out of control. Read at your own risk.
Show Rating: NC-17
Continuity: G1
Characters: Soundwave, Megatron, Onslaught, Jazz, Ratchet, Hound, Constructicons
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors.
Motivation (Prompt): NK won the fic/art commission auction, and she gave us a kinkmeme prompt ( . ?thread=9152990#t9152990). Basically, whatever happened to the pornstars of Cybertron?
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Part Two: Disciplinary Measures Will Be Taken
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One of the best things about peace was that there was time to kick back and relax. Onslaught intended to do just that.
The spaceport project was fighting him bureaucratic hand over fist, and he needed time away from sorting out Swindle's latest 'deal' on perma-crete. Apparently it wouldn't last through two shuttle take-offs, much less the landing of a full-sized frigate. Blast Off had stormed into his office - actually stormed, which was the most emotion Onslaught had seen him display in or out of battle - and started yelling about failed tests. The spectacle would have been fascinating if the stats he was waving over his head didn't screw their budget over six ways from Cybertron. The timetable, too, since the perma-crete had already been poured and would have to be demolished before the proper landing pads could be built.
Swindle had conveniently vanished from the buildsite. The last Grapple had seen of the conmech, there was casual sidling going on. Casual sidling, as anyone who knew anything about Swindle knew, meant that the mech knew he was in trouble and was on his way to a bolthole. Onslaught wouldn't be pinning responsibility for this mess on him, not so long as Swindle could safely remain in hiding.
Well, not quite true. Everybody on the buildsite blamed the one they all knew did it, but unless and until Vortex could track the slippery, sneaky bugger down, Shockwave held Onslaught accountable. The indignant supplier refused to issue a refund on ordered, paid for, and used product, and nobody could fault a supplier who'd done his job. Without Swindle confessing his sins, all Shockwave had for evidence of wrongdoing was an order form with Onslaught's signature on it.
Except somebody had tweaked the order form. The specific kind of product the spaceport needed had been swapped for one significantly cheaper, and the difference in shanix had been pocketed somewhere between Onslaught's desk and the supplier.
Who paid for the crime was officially stalled out at the moment, but Shockwave didn't throw Onslaught into a cell to rust because even he knew Swindle was involved. Statistically speaking, Swindle was more likely to be at fault than not whenever inferior goods turned up and money went missing. That was simply the natural order of the universe. Money gone = Swindle skimmed it.
Arrest and Shockwave's authorization on funds to repurchase the permacrete hinged on Vortex dragging Swindle back out into the open, however, and Vortex wasn't in a hurry. He thought chasing Swindle down to be a hilarious game. The helicopter had left the office laughing. Onslaught wanted to punch him for that, but he'd refrained. His bad mood wasn't Vortex's fault.
Directly, it was Swindle's. Indirectly, it was Blast Off's. The shuttle had disappeared for a couple days into orbit to recover from his unprecedented show of emotion, something Onslaught was grateful for. Blast Off showing visible emotion was unexpectedly exhausting.
He turned out to be one of those mechs who ranted for 15 minutes, settled down to fuming silence just long enough for a sensible mech to think the issue dropped, and then something, anything, would set him off again. He'd rehashed the same rant about nine times, using phrases like "I'm not complaining, I'm just saying." and "It's not that I'm shapist, but mechs with that frametype."
An hour of extremely shapist complaints later, Onslaught had pitched the prejudiced pile of walking slag out on his thrusters. There was only so much of that he could take. Blast Off had the sensitivity of a rock. At least Vortex offended people intentionally. Vastly irritating as that could be, it indicated a passing awareness of other people's feelings. They might not matter to Vortex beyond being a sign of what button to push, but the 'copter knew they existed.
Blast Off hadn't even noticed Onslaught glaring at him. What a rusted collection of offensive beliefs. Onslaught was a groundframe just like Swindle. He'd put up with snide little comments from flightframes all his blasted life, but usually mechs had the decency to say them behind his back.
It'd taken physically pitching the shuttle out the office door before Blast Off clued in that his boss didn't want him disgracing the place. A frametype superiority complex was a workplace conversation killer of the worst kind, and yet flyers kept wondering why they couldn't keep a steady job. Ugh. It had to be an attitude carry-over from back when city populations separated by frametype instead of faction.
Onslaught spent the rest of the shift on his commlink. He browbeat Vortex into taking the mission seriously, resulting in a 50/50 chance of Swindle turning up in person or in a bodybag. That was an improvement of sorts, he supposed. He also ignored increasingly passive-aggressive pseudo-apologies from Blast Off that only succeeded in offending him further ("I didn't mean you, you're different than mechs like that - not that I'm shapist or anything - and I wasn't complaining, I was just saying"). Once he was fed up with those, he spent the last hour of his shift sending death threats over Swindle's comm. frequency. The conmech didn't pick up, but it made Onslaught feel better.
Being the Combaticon commander was a lot like being trapped aboard a wooden lifeboat with a termite colony. If Onslaught sat on Swindle, the other three destroyed the boat with their own combinations of blind arrogance, stupidity, and self-destructive sadism. While he restrained them, Swindle sold the boat out from under them, compelled by inbuilt greed. He couldn't win.
He'd fired Brawl a while back, which was the equivalent of pitching dead weight overboard. The boat had been moderately easier to manage since then. Both Vortex and Blast Off tread lightly. They knew any business desperate enough to hire them wouldn't pay slag, and most bosses were far less tolerant than Onslaught.
Onslaught was used to Combaticon, ah, idiosyncrasies. Their idiocy in general, really. As Swindle's employment proved, Onslaught was capable of putting up with an awful lot in the name of continued business. As long as their usefulness outstripped their annoyance factor, he kept Blast Off and Vortex on the payroll. Normally, they didn't test his temper this way. They were careful to stay assets instead of liabilities. They weren't nearly as useful to the spaceport project as Swindle. They could be replaced in a week.
Swindle? Not so much.
Oh, Onslaught had every intention of turning the Jeep over to the project accountant's tender mercies once Vortex got back. Swindle would be handed over to Shockwave and charged with embezzlement, not Onslaught. Swindle deserved to be arrested, but if - and it was a big 'if' because Swindle really was the best at what he did; rumor had it even Optimus Prime called on him - the charges stuck, the spaceport project would be down a procurer.
That was a future headache in the making. Maybe Onslaught could hire Sideswipe as a replacement until Swindle inevitably weaseled out of prison. Only until then, of course. Onslaught wanted the greedy sack of junk's head on a pike, but there was no question about hiring him back after the legal issues settled. Swindle was too fragging good at his job not to hire him. He did a lot more than make money deals, and the project needed him to run smoothly.
He was relatively pleasant company outside of schmoozing, but he could talk anyone into anything once he hit his stride. In sales mode, he possessed the nigh-magical ability to charm even Huffer, Grapple, Brawn, and Gears into working efficiently. Quietly would have been a Primus-sent miracle, but there were times Onslaught wanted to nominate Swindle for sainthood anyway. Swindle could spend two shifts straight nodding earnest agreement to the latest bout of griping from the Autobot quartet of nonstop whining. Onslaught would rather shoot himself in the head than be cornered by those mechs, and he was the one who'd hired them!
He was siccing Swindle on Blast Off the next time the shuttle got his heat panels ruffled, and it wasn't just because he currently wanted to throw Swindle into a trash compactor. The conmech had people skills. Highly-irritating-people skills.
Plus, Onslaught wanted to see Blast Off try to excuse his shapism to a groundframe who fit every single criteria for what shapists were prejudiced against. He imagined the shuttleframe would get an excellent taste of his own foot by the end of that conversation. Swindle would smile that encouraging sales smile, nod without agreeing, and let Blast Off talk himself into an uncomfortable verbal corner from whence there was no dignified escape.
That a mental picture to savor. Heh heh heh.
But that was a plan for another day, a day long after Vortex found Swindle. For now, Onslaught was finished with his shift. His commlink was offline, blocking Blast Off's sulky messages and anything else to do with his job. He could do that these days. The war was over, and therefore constant contact wasn't necessary. His emergency contact information was for precisely that: emergency. His secretary had it, and Onslaught was fairly sure nothing short of people running around on fire would convince Groove there was an actual emergency requiring him to be called in. Even in that unlikely event, Groove would first recommend everyone go for a drive to calm down.
Groove didn't do panic. Groove occasionally did strange liquids in funny colors (First Aid had a controlled-substances medical testing permit, theoretically), but he didn't do panic. Onslaught's contact information was safe in his hands.
That left nothing but free time on the schedule until the next shift. Onslaught intended to spend it in blissful isolation.
The absolute best thing about peace was the freedom to live by himself, do things by himself, and own things that didn't get smashed, stolen, or hijacked for use by anyone else. He had to work with people; the last thing he wanted was to share his off-duty time with them. The other Combaticons had never even been invited through his door, and they never would be if he had anything to say about it.
The one time Vortex picked the lock and invited himself in had been the last. Onslaught had caught him drinking his highgrade. He'd promptly shot the 'copter. Then he'd successfully pressed charges against him for harassment, home invasion, and burglary.
Vortex hadn't known how to face charges brought by his own gestalt commander, much less how to deal with a civilian court based off of a military court that had his military history on hand. One or the other he could have handled. Everything at once had overwhelmed him. Onslaught had counted on that.
Peace was, as he was discovering every day, strangely satisfying. He didn't have to put up with half the scrap he'd had to during the war. Didn't like Blast Off's attitude? Kick him out of the office. Brawl got into another fight? Fire him. Swindle robbed him? Let the project accountant turn him inside-out, take the refund out of him, and bring him up on embezzlement charges. It wasn't Onslaught's problem anymore. Barring execution, anything that happened to the other Combaticons was no longer his concern. A professional annoyance, perhaps, but nothing personal.
As Vortex had discovered, much to his bewilderment. It turned out laughing off the charges didn't work so well. Neither did mocking the authority of the appointed judge at that particular court. This was a different Cybertron, one with a Decepticon judicial system well aware of Vortex the interrogator, mindfragger, sadist, and killer. By the time the judge had all the additional charges for contempt, threatening behavior, and various, possibly made-up legal violations stacked up on top of Onslaught's case, Vortex had faced vorns as a prisoner in the smelterworks.
The other Combaticons didn't care. They wouldn't lift a finger to help him. Forced labor wasn't a death sentence and wasn't the Detention Centre. Frag, it'd keep him out of their way for the length of his sentence. Fabulous. That sounded great.
Vortex's humble, crawling plea for an out-of-court settlement was still Onslaught's ringtone. The whole thing. He let the entire audio file play through before picking up his personal comm. frequency. It sounded like perfect victory, every time.
He slouched down and casually flicked through the entertainment options on the vidscreen taking up one full wall of his flat. Primus, he loved this thing. It was bigger than his altmode and had been bought from the growing stash of money Vortex paid him as part of the settlement. Half the mech's pay, every deca-cycle, right on time.
The entertainment screens had changed since he'd sat down to flick through them last. Media & Entertainment couldn't just let a good thing be. They had to keep making it better. Onslaught relaxed further, kicking one heel up onto the end of the couch. The remote clicked as he channel-surfed happily.
Huh, General Practitioner. He remembered that show. Not really what he wanted to watch tonight, but he bookmarked the screen for another time.
A separate DIY channel had shown up, full of shows from people like Scrapper and Red Alert. Nope, not interested. Do-It-Yourself was for mechs who couldn't afford to Pay-Someone-Else.
No, no action vids tonight. That might get his fuel pump rate up, and that wouldn't do. Becoming one with the couch was the extent of his life goals at the moment. Excitement would be counter-productive to that goal.
He skipped past the nature channel without pausing.
Tracks had a reality show now? Fashion, of course, and that explained why everyone on the buildsite kept stopping to call in votes at mid-shift. He'd better not watch it, or he'd get sucked into the world of repaints, buffing, model makeovers, and photography. There was something horribly addictive about watching contestants pose, preen, and scramble for first place.
Welcome to the Gun Show might be worth watching this cycle. Guest starring Chromia and Ironhide wasn't quite at the level of inviting, say, Wheeljack onto the show, but explosions were guaranteed.
Well then. "This is new," Onslaught murmured, sitting straighter. "Padding the Media & Entertainment branch's budget a little, are we, Soundwave?" Pay-Per-View was definitely a new selection screen. He'd have remembered it being there before. Swindle would have certainly told him about it, even if he'd missed it somehow.
Swindle was already rolling in shanix after selling his sales experience to new businesses looking to buy commercial spots from M&E, but Pay-Per-View meant that Soundwave was now selling access to content. That was a brand new opening in the post-war entertainment industry.
Glee bubbled up in Onslaught's spark. Swindle had to be tying himself into teeny-weeny burning knots of greed versus common sense. Conflicted purple optics were probably staring at the screen right this moment, knowing Vortex would find him the klik he contacted anyone to exploit this wide-open commercial opportunity. But it was right there. Waiting. Tempting.
That greed glitch would erode anything in its path given enough time. Swindle was going to have plenty of time to see himself putting his own neck on the chopping block.
Mm, good thoughts.
Onslaught scrolled through the options. They'd better not be showing old snuff films. He'd strangle Vortex if the 'copter showed up on the vidscreen without warning him first. The buildsite crew would take a deca-cycle to calm down enough to work with the mech again. Although it didn't look like the choices were violent. There were a few behind-the-scene specials for the regular shows, and a dozen old movies that were obviously there for those who were too impatient to wait for the regular broadcast cycle to run.
Aaaaaand then there was one that could be used as an example of 'one of these things is not like the others.' That rating jump was like none other.
The summary alone sent Onslaught's temperature gauge skyrocketing. He remembered that actor. Sarge used to be the macho fantasy mech for anybody with a military fetish. Maybe especially for those who liked the look and attitude of military mechs sans the undesirable traits of people actually in the military. Having been a Decepticon for so long, Onslaught could say with utter certainty there was a distinction. Not many combat veterans could pull it off how Sarge had, much less while cranking the sexual aspect to the max. Just remembering triggered Onslaught's interface equipment.
He'd spent far too long among pompous, swaggering aftheads with bad hygiene and worse attitudes. In a faction that emphasized physical might as an indicator of influence and authority, Onslaught had nearly forgotten what power charismatic mechs wielded. Some mechs, no matter their frame, just owned rooms when they walked in. Megatron had it, whatever it was. So did Starscream. Swindle had it by the bucket-load.
Sarge, though. He had Megatron's threatening aura, the taste of danger that turned individuals into an army following at his heels, addicted to him like a drug, yet at the same time he possessed some of Swindle's magic charm. More of a rough personal connection than the conmech's smooth mastery of social skills, but that felt right. It fit. Swindle was an oilslick, which worked for him, but Sarge...slick and shiny would be like putting chrome hubcaps a stripped frame. It'd be laughable.
Onslaught remembered Sarge as a mech who bled confidence, the self-assurance of someone who could take on a battalion in every conceivable way. He was badaft without being big, covered in guns and glory without losing an inch in sex appeal, and what he lost in size he more than made up for in flexibility. He also had a way of jerking his chin at the camera that made a mech want to fall to his knees in front of the screen. Raw, primal magnetism filled every move he made.
Memory was strong. Onslaught had half his credit account number entered before he even realized he'd selected the movie. This one! Fragging Primus in the Pit but did he remember this one. 'Sarge returns a hero to the barracks, but it seems his unit has been shipped off. Instead, he has ten new recruits to train. Unruly, unkempt, and untamed, they need an officer to get them hard and ready. Does Sarge have what it takes to discipline them?'
This was a terrible idea. This was a wonderful, terrible idea. The last number clicked in. Somebody over in M&E now had far too much information about what the Combaticon commander did in his spare time. Onslaught should be worried about that, concerned for his public image, but at the moment he couldn't care less. He zipped through the last approval screen and sat forward on the couch, visor locked on the screen.
A pale crackle of white static filled it as the old film started. Porn vids had never been of high quality to begin with. Time hadn't helped preserve quality, it seemed.
Empty sky, dark but scattered with stars, and then the stark blaze of a training ground floodlight. Against it, a sudden black silhouette. Musings on film quality slammed to a halt, and Onslaught's ventilation system stopped. The remote crumpled around the edges as his hand tensed.
Broad shoulders marked with the signature stars, a narrow waist that allowed for bending in every conceivable direction, and a chest made entirely of old weld-scars and broken glass. Clean, but not polished; short, but not squat. Military correct posture, but radiating a sense that the military had based the stance off what he did instead of the other way around. A chiseled jaw, blocky helm, a gun barrel, a machete hilt, and thighs spread wide enough a mech could fit his face between them. When the camera panned down Sarge's body, Onslaught's fans flipped from 'off' to 'high' with no stop in between. Those scars looked like he could fit his fingers in them, and those shoulders against the floodlights made him want to see them squared over him, blocking out the light just like that.
An HUD error pinged Onslaught to open his vents and let the fans actually do something when the camera finally started back up. Heat billowed out into the room abruptly. He panted air rapidly, trying to cool down. This was ridiculous. The movie had barely started!
The camera reached the ground and lingered just long enough to tease before starting a slow pan upward to really get the feeling of Sarge looming over the viewer. Onslaught leaned forward without noticing, looking up, and his vents gaped wide open as he hungrily watched the slow crawl upward. It revealed enough ammunition to take on Primus Himself, one cracked optic that could see anything a mech tried to hide from it, and the most unimpressed scowl Cybertron had ever seen.
"Atten-hut!" bellowed through the speakers, and Onslaught nearly snapped to his feet.
The camera pulled back to show a group of filthy combat frames. They sneered and shuffled into loose approximation of a formation. Sarge's unimpressed sneer deepened, and he directed it straight through the screen into Onslaught's living room to judge him unworthy of venting exhaust. Onslaught quivered where he sat upright, fans stalled under that glare. Hands and remote tangled together in his lap as if to cover the embarrassing whirr of his spike starting to pressurize.
Oh, Primus, this was why powerful mechs only used their valves. Mechs didn't use spikes; spikes used mechs. The weaker a mech, the more he popped his spike hatch. Spikes were beyond control once fragging came up, and a stiff one was impossible to hide. There was nothing quite like having a body part that betrayed how even a mech who scorned his very existence turned him on. Onslaught's shoulders hunched, and his fingers twined together in his lap. It didn't help. Sarge gave him a thoroughly disdainful up-and-down, and Onslaught's spike thudded against its hatch.
"Look at the lot of yuh!" Sarge spat in a thick Rust Sea drawl. "I ain't seen a worse bunch'uh scum since I scraped the bottoms of my feet. Well, I'll clean yuh up." The camera pulled back, and the leader of the group scoffed. Sarge stepped up into his face to curl a (decoratively split) lip and give him a once over. "I'll whip yuh into shape, yuh lazy good-for-nothing wastes uh space. Yuh'll know yer place after I'm done whitcha."
"Oh yeah? And where's that?" one of the others piped up.
Sarge yanked the leader down to his knees, and the camera zoomed in for an instant, intimate, close-up shot at visor-to-crotch level. "Under me," the rust-camouflage officer said with a good angle of his smug expression from underneath. The innuendo oozed, it was so blatant, and even more blatant was the leader's tongue coming out to lick his lips, his visor focused on pelvic armor for a long, endless moment.
Anticipation crawled up the back of Onslaught's neck and clicked his spike hatch open loud enough to echo in the empty apartment. He scooted forward on the couch, knees pressed tightly together to cover how his spike pressurized so fast it made his processor whirl. The stupid porn vid dialogue had him ridiculously turned on, and he couldn't pretend he was stronger than this. He was weak. He had no control. His interface array had taken over his thoughts, and the only thing in his head was how desperately he wanted to interface.
The cheesy plot was so obviously meant to move things on to the porn that he was getting antsy watching. His spike throbbed in rhythmic waves with the pulse of hydraulic pumps, and his thighs eased apart to allow one hand to sneak down and touch himself. He wished he could stop himself, but even squeezing his legs together made his hips move in short thrusts against nothing. Hand curled around his spike, he limited himself to little jerks, palm cupped around the tip.
The set-up was entirely predictable, of course. Sarge chivvied the unit into the washracks, and there was some mild sparring that Onslaught could recognize as completely choreographed now that he'd fought in a war. Before, he remembered being impressed by how easily Sarge tossed the larger mechs around. Now he was more impressed by the camera angles that allowed it to look like ten mechs could get their afts kicked by one smaller mech without causing any visible damage beyond some scuff marks.
Although some of the handholds Sarge grabbed definitely left their mark on the unit. Onslaught's spike ached for want of a rough hand using it to pull him closer, pull him down, reaching between his legs from behind to stop him in his tracks and make him whimper surrender. More than one of the soldiers surrounding Sarge had the fight taken right out of them with a deft tug right on the spikehead, and Onslaught thumbed his own during the slow-motion replay.
And then there was the best camera angle of all, panning up from the lead troublemaker's perspective. Onslaught pressed his thighs together around his hands, hard around his spike, as the camera slowly, slowly worked its way up thick armor, thighs that were made to be grabbed, and -
He didn't moan, but it was a close thing. Yeah. Yeah, this was what he remembered about the Sarge films. That valve. The producers of the Sarge series had done a wonderful service to first person perspective porn by putting the viewer in the place of the various conquests of Sarge, military action hero. The camouflage paintjob lightened to a glistening, polished silver, the contour rings up inside catching the light in slivers of barely-visible moving parts that gleamed like liquid mercury as lubricant trickled down.
Onslaught's spike popped free of his hands and thighs to bob in open air, eager and needing. Never had Onslaught wanted to use it more than when Sarge spread his legs and told him to get down there on the double. He was on his knees in front of the screen without even thinking about it.
"I said," Sarge growled in that rough-edged voice, "get down there and clean. Yuh need to learn to follow through on orders, and no time like the present. Yuh ain't getting up until I'm," the camera jolted as the leader's face was yanked flush to the edge of that valve, "satisfied yuh did a good job. Got that?"
"Yeah," came breathily through the speakers, and Onslaught thought about getting off his knees and back onto the couch for a brief second. Then a tongue slipped on screen, licking up into that waiting valve. Onslaught's finger's curled, and he echoed the involuntary yelp from the soldier as the valve clamped down tight enough to make metal squeal. "I mean - yeth thir!"
Dignity was long gone. Onslaught sat back on his knees in front of the screen, spike out and in hand, hips rocking in time with the frantic lapping. The screen showed a beautiful close-up of lubricant dripping off armor, and it didn't matter than the film was low-quality or the plot was stupid. Sarge growled, engine revving with the heavy rattle of an aroused mech finally getting it good and deep, and that was worth every credit Onslaught had spent tonight. He didn't really care about dignity. He cared that with a screen this big, he could almost see up into Sarge's valve past the licking tongue flicking in and out of view as if it was his own. It looked like it belonged to him at this angle. He could almost feel the different textures it lapped over. If he squinted his visor out of focus, he could raise his hand and pretend his fingers were slipping in to pull that wet valve wide open.
"I say you could put your filthy paws on me?!" roared from the speakers, and a yelped chorus of 'No sir!' came in surround sound. Onslaught might have been part of the chorus, but he was panting too hard to notice. The fingers pulled out, his hand going to the floor to keep his balance, and now the whole, entire screen, everything he could see, was that valve flexing around the tongue working in and out of it. His hand squeezed and stroked faster and faster, spike twitching as he imagined plunging into that slick, hot valve in time with the thick sounds from the speakers. Small, urgent noises spilled out of his vocalizer, and he couldn't stop himself from leaning forward like he was the one lapping in renewed obedience.
He fell back as Sarge's palm filled the screen, throwing him down. The old soldier snarled a command, and Onslaught flung his wrists above his head, neck straining to watch past his erect spike as Sarge straddled him. What a view, what a view, but he wasn't allowed to touch himself or the battered knuckles working in and out of that tight, responsive valve he could practically taste -
- what the frag, he didn't even have a mouth -
- until Onslaught promised, nearly begging, "I'll be good, sir! I will! I'll do whatever you say! Anything you say, sir, please sir, please take me sir!"
"Yuh ain't been doing too good-a job at that so far," Sarge snorted. Hands appeared at his waist, lifting him off Onslaught while the Combaticon whined in frustration. Helm and heels took Onslaught's weight as his hips rode up after that valve.
He had only a few seconds to regret the loss. The camera switched to another soldier's perspective, and Onslaught scrambled back to sit against the abandoned couch, bracing himself to service that valve how it deserved.
One hand braced against the washrack wall, Sarge bent forward and slapped his other hand back to grab the soldier by the hip and pulling him into place. "And don't yuh stop 'til I'm done with yuh!" the officer growled as he took the offered spike in one strong buck of his hips. "Yuh're here for one reason and one only: something hard t'use. Got that?" Panting grunts answered him, and Onslaught's visor locked on the gasping, clanging grind on the screen while his hand frantically wrung his spike from root to tip in time.
"No, wait, sir, I'm almost there," he pleaded over the whirr of his fans when Sarge contemptuously pushed the second solder away.
"Yuh're ready to blow already? I ain't even near heated, and yuh think yuh're done? Getcher lazy aft up and at-'em, or I'll find someone who can do his duty and yuhrs while he's at it. I could replace yuh with any mech in here - frag, with a gun barrel! - and buff my sensors better than yuh're doing. Yuh'all need discipline!" snapped him in a way that was more command than anything. "Yuh'all need it, and I'm not walkin' outta here 'til one-a yuh manages to stay hard long enough for a real frag. So help me, scrapheap, I catch yuh not at the ready, I'll have yur laid out every shift learning the meaning of combat readiness under real pressure."
That was the dirtiest piece of double-entendre Onslaught had heard, and he'd never be able to do an inspection again without imagining what kind of combat he was getting ready for. He whined as he pinched the tip of his spike, shaking as pleasure struggled to peak against the sharp pain. It took a moment to ebb, and Sarge glared at him the whole time. Primus help the soldier who overloaded before Sarge was done with him.
"That's what I thought," huffed at him. "I want yuh at the ready. Yuh pump twice and mess, and I ain't even revved. Get back to work, oilguzzler!" Those grabbable thighs were dead center on the screen again, and the camera did a quick pan around the washrack to show the whole unit in disarray, spikes out and hovering on the verge of coming on the floor. "Come at me! I can take yuh all, see if I can't!"
He could. Oh, could he ever. Onslaught hadn't remembered how good the Sarge films were. He wasn't even remotely a submissive mech in the berth, yet he was squealing on command at the end, and then he came on command as through he'd been waiting his entire life for permission to spill out at last, task finished, duty complete, sobbing in perfect pleasure as his spark pulsed in time to the hard pulses of long-awaited overload. Everything came to one climactic ending and the credits rolled, and he was left shivering on the floor, still on his knees, spike limp in his hand as he stroked a last spurt out in a tremble of overworked hip joints thrusting into his hand. The after-image of Sarge arching back as that magnificent valve finally clenched in overload stayed burned into his mind. He'd be carrying that with him the rest of the week, spike stiff as he sat behind his desk daydreaming. He'd be the laughingstock of the buildsite if anyone found out.
…still worth every credit.
He'd have bought another viewing if he had the stamina for a second round, but his fuel pump was thundering fast enough to make his helm ring as it was. Onslaught pet his spent spike and breathed deep, remembering the sweet sight of a valve too flexible to be real as it took fingers, tongues, the washrack shower nozzle, and two mechs' spikes. Sarge had ridden them all, sneered as he outlasted their best efforts to make him respond how they wanted, do what they lusted. Instead, he'd brought them all to overload on command, fully disciplined at last.
If only that method worked on real soldiers.
Fumbling for the remote, Onslaught turned off the screen. It took two tries to get back to his feet. Woo, okay, that'd been a bit more intense than he'd thought. Primus. He needed to look up the Sarge series. There had been a bunch of films the last he knew, and he kind of needed to see them all again, now. If Soundwave was going to put them up on Pay-Per-View, then Onslaught was going to buy a slagging subscription. M&E was going to know things about his personal life that would scar them for life.
Maybe there were more films. New films. Somebody would have said something if Sarge had died, right? And pornstars didn't retire. They just rested between epic bouts of fragging.
He'd think about it later. He had a big chunk of free time to spend looking it up.
Onslaught collapsed on the couch and passed out.
[* * * * *]
[ A/N: The sillies continue. Until the curtain rises next time, m'dears.]