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?
[* * * * *]
Part Three: Ve Have Vays of Making You Talk
[* * * * *]
The shoulders weren't as broad. The ammunition belts slung around hips and upper arms were missing. Sidearms and the machete Megatron recalled being used in ways they really shouldn't have been were also gone. The scarred chestplate had been replaced by headlights and the front grill of an Earth vehicle in decent repair. Swindle had a similar altmode.
It woke a deeper aversion to seeing Sarge in this mech. Bad enough he was an Autobot, but resembling Swindle in any way? Ugh. Megatron frowned and studied the picture on the screen, hoping he could pick out something as obviously wrong. Anything. An accidental case of mistaken identity or even an intentional imitation would make this whole problem go away.
Nothing stood out. Megatron narrowed his optics, all but glaring at the screen as the details clicked together.
The waist, yes. That was the same, narrow enough to invite a mech's hands to hold onto it and a flexible midpoint between the heavy altmode armor above and below. Those thighs looked right, allowing for minor changes from scanning a different vehicle mode. They were less powerful off the vidscreen, but in reality, the Autobot was rather small. Much smaller than erotic dreams and good camera angles had painted him in Megatron's fantasies.
His frown deepened into a scowl to hide the pensive furrow forming between his optics. This was Sarge, alright. The unadorned black pelvic span looked just as heavy as in the pornvids. Megatron remembered it well. The thighs were more of an accent and leverage for the valve he easily pictured opening up between them. He had to wonder if that had changed at all.
He squashed the flicker of curiosity and denied it ever existed.
Bending closer to the screen, he scowled as he looked between the pictures. The helm shape was actually fairly similar, rugged angles with the wrong face under them, but not completely wrong when he took a closer look. Just…minus a few defining flaws. Take those away, and he looked like a completely different mech.
It was disappointing to find out that the scars had been cosmetic. Megatron had originally wanted to keep all of his battlescars, back when the war started. He'd thought they granted him a certain dramatic flair.
Putting the pictures side-by-side made him feel foolish for not having seen the resemblance sooner. It helped to know that apparently no one else had, either, if Soundwave's report of Jazz's surprise and subsequent evasive tactics was accurate. Megatron wanted that manipulative little glitch pinned down and hammered for information, but even being the Decepticon Supreme Commander didn't give him a good excuse to arrest someone over a pornstar's real identity. Jazz would probably laugh himself sick during the interrogation.
Dignity. Megatron had to retain a sense of dignity. All of Cybertron didn't need to know that he burned to know who Sarge had been.
"Are you certain this is the same mech?" His question doubted, but he couldn't unsee it now that he really looked. This was - or had been, anyway - Sarge.
"97% certainty." Soundwave shifted uncomfortably and tapped a key, bringing up a few extra pictures for comparison. "I have not confirmed identity with Autobot Hound, and Autobot Jazz has not reported results of contacting him for an interview. Steps taken to leave past behind suggest he may not wish to reclaim his past identity."
Sarge sneering and Sarge flashing a roguish grin appeared side-by-side with Hound bird-watching on Earth and Hound smiling bashfully at the camera. Megatron's face twisted, disbelief and disgust turning his tanks as he looked from one to the other. The last pictures to pop up belonged to the Autobot's prisoner induction and the photo attached to his business permit application. One showed a weary soldier with dull finish and defeated optics, an identification placard held listlessly in front of his chest. Hound positively beamed out of the other, one of the flowers he imported for his garden shop here in Polyhex held out like an offering to the viewer.
Megatron's processors took in the data they were handed and fumbled it, trying to fit square pegs into round holes. There had to be something here he wasn't seeing, because he didn't look at the cheerful gardener who regularly sent Optimus Prime bouquets of foil-flower hybrids and think 'Sarge.' That blasted Autobot scout could not be the same mech he would have gladly popped his panel for, anytime and anywhere. It wasn't possible!
Sarge had shoulders broader than Megatron's own, or at least the attitude to make it seem like he did, but Megatron winced as he thought about it. The proof in front of him forced him to revise his memories of Sarge. The mech who'd played the role had sheer screen presence, not size. Good camera angles and acting had allowed him loom over enemy soldiers and fill a room. Hound was probably the right size, in reality.
He was the right everything, now that Megatron saw him. Lose some shoulder armor and change out the chest piece for a functional altmode part, and replace the cracked optic that'd probably been a fake. The facial scars had been cosmetic. The shin armor must have been removable, too. A different paint job in Cybertron's camouflage colors instead of Earth's would go a long way toward making Hound look right, and adjust perception for camera angles that'd made him taller onscreen, which made sense in retrospect. Real mechs didn't go around silhouetted by explosions and constantly cast in the best light to make a cracked optic look sexy instead of pitiable.
It made Megatron wonder when the scout had gotten that hologram projector. It was a custom-made career in porn, if it'd been a modification Hound installed before the war. It also made Megatron wonder if the Autobot ever -
That wasn't a thought he should be having.
Soundwave cocked his head at him as Megatron reset his vocalizer. Rather than meet the question in Soundwave's visor, he stood up and walked around the desk to get a different angle on the screen.
Okay, fine. He'd admit that the helm, the waist, and maybe the thighs were the same. The hips had a different shape due to attitude more than armor, but they were strong and wide enough to make Megatron's throat work as he looked at them. The chest was about right. The distinctive stars were the same. They were even in the same spots. Frag, he should have noticed that, at least.
The face still threw him off. And it didn't help that his circuits heated the longer he stared at the pictures. Was there a single picture of Sarge in the entire series where he didn't pose like an invitation to frag? Well, more like a demand. If it wasn't the spread legs, it was the fingers subtly parted to suggest a ready valve.
Megatron had to turn his face away from Soundwave. Inappropriate curiosity about the hologram projector and past acting experience nagged at his thoughts.
Soundwave was busy studying the ceiling anyway, so he didn't notice. "Autobot Hound has caused no trouble since surrender. Business permit applied for: botanical import shop. No interested expressed in revisiting previous career field."
Primus knew there would be producers lining up to film him if he did. The entire Media & Entertainment branch would fall over itself to set that up, and wasn't that why Soundwave had brought this to his attention in the first place? Beyond Megatron's own vested interest, Soundwave wanted this actor back in business. Megatron darted a look toward the screen and licked his lips. The audience was eager. The profit from Soundwave's Pay-Per-View venture shouted that loud and clear. Change some details, and Sarge would be back on the screen in no time.
Hound's optics were a bright, friendly, cheerful blue that Megatron wanted to see restored to a piercing, angry yellow. Add some cosmetic lines to disguise the easy smile, bring back the scars to make his face more forbidding, perhaps paint a contrasting stripe on the chin to make the jawline stronger, the whole face blockier, blunter, and -
Megatron ripped his optics away and denied the request from his ventilation system. No, he was not overheating, and he didn't need to cool down. He was discussing a weird piece of present-day trivia with Soundwave, who shared a lot of history with him. Soundwave, who knew far too much about how a young, inexperienced faction leader had once based himself off of a particular action hero who could crush entire battalions in his well-exercised and rarely-satisfied valve.
He had the abrupt, utterly mortifying thought that Hound - a.k.a. Sarge, a.k.a. a pornstar, a.k.a. an Autobot - might have picked up on that fact. Not that Megatron had ever copied anything wholesale! He hadn't needed that much help. He'd needed to borrow some confidence, not an entire command style. There was no way Hound would have noticed anything, not even that one speech where the double-entendres couldn't have passed over anyone's head, but still. What if Hound knew?
"I want to speak with him," Megatron blurted, then reset his vocalizer and pretended he'd meant to say that. "Perhaps he can be persuaded to guest star in one of your channel specials. The Pay-Per-View options are bringing in enough extra income to make the other branches envious of your budget." Shockwave had been making noises about taking some of Soundwave's budget away, although he'd phrased it as 'reassignment of assets.' "Call it an experiment in selling commercial space. I'm sure businesses would fight for a spot on that show."
Soundwave's head snapped toward him, visor wide. That made Megatron feel better about his own unease. If Soundwave was giving him that look, then they were equally on edge. Hmm. Yes, Soundwave was waffling on this, wasn't he? An unusual thing for the stoic mech. He'd brought this to Megatron's attention instead of speaking to the Autobot directly.
What were they so alarmed for? Hound was a low-ranking Autobot scout. The only reason Megatron knew about him was the holographic projector he was known for. The mech had been a particularly frustrating thorn in the Decepticons' side during their time on Earth because of it. Other than that single equipment specialty, Hound didn't stand out at all.
True, the rocket launcher was oversized for his frametype. A fine piece of armament in its own right, it had to take some skill to use, and not just in the point-and-fire sense. The scanners attached to it had to be tied into his hologram projector as well, considering how he had fooled every Decepticon on Earth at least once. The Autobot had pulled quite a few foolhardy, almost daredevil stunts now that Megatron thought back on it. Brave, then, and able to use overpowered weaponry as well as equipment that took deft handling. Not that much different than -
Megatron hurriedly sat down, blinking his optics back into focus. "I want him here," he said, grateful his voice didn't sound any different. A slight rasp was normal for him. "Find an excuse."
Soundwave hesitated a long moment before nodding. "As you command," he said before standing to leave. It was more of a flustered retreat than a calm withdrawal, but nobody beyond Megatron would ever know.
It wasn't as though his leader was watching him leave. Megatron had his own issues right now.
A gear pinged in Megatron's jaw as he stared at the screen. He'd get to the bottom of this. He'd find out if this Autobot really was the mech who'd been the star of the red-light shows in the lower levels of Kaon. He couldn't believe it.
He might believe it.
It could be true.
It probably was true. Soundwave wouldn't fail him in this. The Autobot Hound had been the pornstar Sarge.
Megatron could accept that. He would accept that, disappointing as it was. He'd thought he'd lost all of his idols and killed all his heroes during the war, but it turned out reality had one last dream to crush. All this time, he'd nurtured the absurd fantasy of someday meeting the incredibly sexy old soldier that had inspired him, once upon a time. Of course, the old fighter would be grudgingly impressed by Megatron's own accomplishments. How could he not? Megatron had led the Decepticons through civil war to victory. He was the victorious conqueror.
He could almost picture how it would have gone. Sarge wasn't one to tolerate authority figures resting on their laurels, but he respected those who deserved respect. Sarge would have respected him, Megatron was sure.
Narrow red optics glanced up at the door. Soundwave would send the Autobot to him, and Hound wouldn't have a choice but to come. Megatron held the power on Cybertron. A lowly scout, an Autobot at that, was a nobody. A shanix could buy six of his frametype out on the street. Megatron could have him for free by snapping his fingers. What mech wouldn't want him? What mech could resist the ruler of an entire planet?
Megatron commanded a planet. He led the Decepticons. He had an army at his fingertips. Officers snapped to attention when he passed. Soldiers leapt to obey his orders. Hound was a loner who'd seen better days and tried to move on into a quiet life. Being brought to Megatron's presence, given the attention others fought for, would bring back the memories of who he'd been and what he'd done.
It wouldn't take much at all to bring Sarge out. After that, there was a certain inevitability about such things, wasn't there? It came down to whether or not Megatron could handle the legend - or perhaps, if the legend could live up to the reality.
He leaned back in his chair and smirked across the room, palms against the front of the desk and fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm on the top. The mech he studied wasn't terribly impressive in person. Reality disappointed again. Weldscars creased paint everywhere on heavy armor, and the cracked optic limited his field of vision. Hands better suited to the hilt of a gun clasped behind him as he settled in an easy parade rest before Megatron's desk.
He looked like a veteran dragged off the training ground after running a platoon ragged getting them into shape. He looked ready to chew up and spit out a mission assignment, any mission assignment. He tipped a knowing look at the pictures on the screen between them, then gave Megatron the same look. An insolent smirk crossed his face. That, at least, lived up to the reputation.
The steady upward tick in his temperature gauge measured how much Megatron looked forward to seeing what else stayed true.
Although it was easy to understand why Sarge might have hidden behind a meek Autobot personae. Weary of war, tired of being sneered at by idiot rookies he had to keep proving himself to endlessly. It was a repetitive cycle that would grind anyone down. Easier to retire into hobbies, indulge a strange botanical interest, than continue beating sense into everyone. But Megatron knew. Sarge couldn't hide behind time and a harmless facade anymore.
Perhaps he realized that, because he didn't make an attempt to keep up the mask. The thick Rust Sea accent was just like Megatron remembered it. "Yuh wanted to see me, sir?"
He pushed his seat out and strolled around the desk, letting his height sink in as he got closer. Not so tall now, eh? "So I did. It seems there's been some question about your...identity."
A bark of laughter answered him, and the blocky helm tipped so a sly look peered up to meet his gaze. "I'm Sarge, sir. Who else'm I supposed to be?"
Some mechs had the presence to make up for size. This mech had so much it pushed Megatron back a step, surprised by a hot sweep of optics caressing him helm to foot. Sarge considered him on the way down and made up his mind on the way back up, smoldering gaze melting over Megatron like an oil bath made of blatant invitation and daring.
Megatron recovered fast enough to make the step back look casual, but he didn't think it fooled Sarge. "I've been told you're an Autobot," he said, circling the smaller mech - he had to keep reminding himself that he was the larger mech here, he was - and humming as if in thought. "Care to comment on the accusation?"
"This an official interrogation?" Sarge drawled, turning to catch his optics again, and suddenly Megatron felt like he was looking up at the old war veteran. Disarmed and humbled by defeat, Sarge still radiated casual confidence. He stood as if he held the power, here. "War's over, sir. Ain't got any reason to pump me for information."
"Oh, the war is over," Megatron agreed. He stopped in front of the retired soldier and made a conscious effort to look down at him, shoulders back as he reminded himself that he had him exactly where he wanted. "You're being called to answer for past crimes." He was in charge. Yes? Yes. Him, not Sarge.
"An' what crimes are those?" A weld-scarred lip twitched up in a knowing grin. "Der-i-lic-tion of du-ty?" he drew out, exaggerating the pronunciation in a way that should not have made his teeth flash and tongue slide behind them obscenely.
The leader of the Decepticons should not be watching that mouth shape words close enough to notice the tongue move and teeth click together. A commander of legions should not feel small and rubbery at the knees as Sarge walked forward, herding him back against the desk, a cocky hitch to that familiar strut and cracked optic glittering wickedly in the suddenly dim lighting of the office. It wasn't as though Megatron had ever pictured this exact scenario during the war. He might have fantasized about commanding Sarge, about impressing the old fighter with his accomplishments and skills, but he hadn't ever thought about looking up at that crooked grin. He hadn't imagined being pressed back by a firm hand on his chest, and he certainly wouldn't give way to the push if it happened.
Of course not.
"Sir, I gotta say. I'm a bit offended by yuh words. Feeling like I gotta prove my worth or something."
"Or something?" It slipped out before Megatron could stop it, a shrill question freed by Sarge's speed. The battered mech stooped down to take his knee out from under him, a quick hipcheck taking out the rest of his balance, and Megatron's hands shot up to hold onto impossibly broad, strong shoulders as the desk ambushed him from behind. Shock alone gave Sarge the time to wedge himself between Megatron's legs.
A big hand groped crudely between his thighs, fingers sliding in to stroke a thrilling contrast. Big, strong, rude and rough, but so very good at what he did. "Or something. Maybe I should be the one asking questions. Yuh wanna bring up past crimes, Decepticon, I gotta start taking sides. Yuh think yuh can resist an Autobot like me?"
"I - " How could someone built for military service have fingers that could do that? Megatron's comeback died in a hoarse groan as they coaxed open the manual cover over his spike. He started to buck his hips, intending to throw the traitor, the spy, the enemy off him, but the Autobot's other hand gripped his throat in an iron grasp that threatened to tear out vital conduits. At the same time, fingers dipped in to find his most vulnerable components and wake them.
Slumping back on the desk, he hissed through his teeth at the teasing glide of fingertips over his unpressurized spike. "You dare. You dare. My Decepticons will never let you live."
"Yeah, I dare," Sarge taunted him, giving a little twist and wiggle of his fingers that had the mech under him jolting in unexpected, involuntary arousal. "Yuh gonna stop me? Don't think yuh called me here to let me go without some…satisfaction, if yuh get my drift." His hands gave a rotating stroke, just in case Megatron didn't follow. "'Sides, yuh really want them in here to see yuh like this? Wide open," stroke, "humming for it," squeeeeeze, "and knowing yuh'll be jacking yuhself off the second I'm hauled off in chains."
An undone moan fought out of Megatron's vocalizer, and his thighs shook as a thumb played with the tip of his spike. He was fully erect, hard and disgracefully eager. His systems hummed audibly, and he was entirely too aware of the betraying sound now that it'd been pointed out to him. He could suppress the noisy whirr of his fans, but his whole body gave him away. His back arched in time with the steady pulls on his length, obedient to Sarge's whim, played to the enemy's tempo and moving at someone else's command, visible and hard and obvious to anyone who saw. Spikes couldn't be hidden. Megatron was exposed like this.
"Every mech out there'll know yuh like it like this. One yuhr back, waitin' to be used. Askin' to be used, 'cause yuh want it, yuh want it bad."
Megatron bit the inside of his lip and writhed, optics shutting off to hide internal chaos. His own sense of power crumpled before the urge to submit as Sarge leaned down to drag a wet, hot tongue up his midriff. When Sarge snickered and bent down further, Megatron threw his head back. The soft flick of pressure on the tip of his spike taunted him with his vulnerability. He was splayed on the desk, open to whatever pleasure or pain was to be inflicted on him, and he couldn't even pretend that wasn't half the turn-on.
Sarge was right, damn him. Megatron wanted to be toyed with like this.
Sarge stood up straight, hand still around Megatron's throat, but a cruel chuckle rewarded the clamp of thighs on his hips. Megatron had given in, and Sarge knew it. "Hard in half a klik. A service mech through and through. Ready to please, aintcha?"
"Stop," Megatron said. It was a pathetic protest. His hands clenched on the edge of the desk, fingers opening and closing as he fought his desires. He should push the tormenting pull on his spike away, fight free of the hand on his neck, and destroy this fool himself.
"Stop?" Sarge let go of his neck, grinning when Megatron didn't immediately lash out. He took a step back that only succeeded in pulling the Megatron's hips off the desk, because Megatron wasn't letting him go. Oh yeah, he wanted this. "I can stop. Or I can," he put his hands against Megatron's thighs, pushing them apart so he could sink to his knees between them, grinning demonically wide, "keep going."
Fans whirred. Heat billowed from wide-open fan vents. Megatron stared down at the scarred lips hovering over his spike. His vulnerable, erect, ready spike. It throbbed in rhythmic waves that he had no control over. There were no cables to flex and work, no calipers to use to massage until his lover was driven mad. No, he was the one who'd overload in a shamefully short time if the mech blowing on the tip was as good at swallowing as he was at talking.
But his pride was effectively dead already from Sarge working him this far. He couldn't be ground any lower, be any more humiliated, have any more control taken away from him. The enemy sucking him off was just one more submission. He'd come, he'd disgrace himself, but at least it'd be over and done with.
"Leave," he grated out.
"Leave?" Sarge gave him an innocent look that brushed his lips over the spike in his face. Megatron made a sound deep in his throat. "Right now?"
His fists creaked as he tightened them on the edge of the desk, a symbol of his authority now turned into a shameful monument to his ravishing. He'd never be able to sit here without remembering the aching need making him stiff. "Finish what you came here to do," he ordered, hating himself, "and then leave. Never come back, or I'll kill you."
Sarge met his optics and nodded solemnly, and they both knew the Autobot would keep his word. He was a brutal fighter, ready and able to kill, but he had his own code of honor. This wasn't the first time he'd had an enemy helpless and begging him for it. Megatron would never see him again, and what happened in this office would be kept between them.
A strong hand tossed one of Megatron's legs over a broad shoulder, and Sarge bent his head. Megatron gasped, hips thrusting forward to meet him, and the sweet, forbidden taste of surrender had him moaning as much as the hot mouth settling over his spike.
"Gnnk."
The grunt sounded unnaturally loud in the empty office, as did the soft, wet splatter of climax. Megatron's fuelpump hammered in his own audios. Breathing slow and deep, he throttled his fans down. It would take longer to cool down, but he wouldn't have to listen to his own loss of control.
He grimaced at the evidence of his overload, opening his desk drawers with his clean hand in a search of something to get rid of the mess. He didn't want anything left for the Autobot to see when he arrived. For some reason, Megatron didn't think the meeting with Hound was going to go anything like -
- like nothing, because Megatron had never planned to meet Sarge. Or the mech who'd played Sarge. An actor was nothing like the character, which he knew full well. He'd had absolutely no fantasies or imagined a single scenario for how it could have gone. Hound was probably a plain, boring, everyday Autobot who'd be scared out of his helm at being called into the office of the ruler of Cybertron. Nothing would happen, nothing at all.
Megatron wasn't looking forward to it at all.
[* * * * *]