Title: Fine Print
Warning: Modeling/dollplay? Nonsexual BDSM. Aspects of coercion via rank.
Rating: PG
Continuity: G1, the Buy series.
Characters: Reflector, Megatron
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): Various, but mostly a need for more nonsexual BDSM.
[* * * * *]
Part 4: "Height difference"
[* * * * *]
He's beautiful. Magnificent. A towering example of what a Decepticon should look and act like. They adore his image for that, every shot they take of him on the battlefield angled upward to maximize the power he exudes. It's political as much as admiration. Propaganda can only go so far. Reality has to meet it halfway, or the tweaks fall through, exposed as lies. Megatron is the reality behind their images, and his presence pushes the propaganda further than mere altered shots. Sheer power shoulders out of the pictures.
The charisma he's famous for doesn't need an angle. Even the raw images Reflector handles before processing hit near to the spark. They hold a primal fierceness, the goriest pictures made glorious as notorious violence mingles with personality to become magnetic instead of repulsive. For Decepticons, those captured moments of heated combat are enough to catch fans. Reflector doesn't release those images polished for collection or public use, but they do show the raw files upon request, projected up onto the wall in the common rooms. Dozens of slides flicker bright in the dark, and an audience of avidly glowing optics surround them.
What fills those rooms during those showings would frighten the Autobots, but Autobots don't understand what makes Megatron exorbitantly attractive. Perhaps if they did, they'd turn traitor more often.
A leader must have power, but he also has to be relatable. Too intimidating, and he becomes an untouchable idol to be worshiped at a distance, feared and perhaps loved, but loyalty will be divided by mythology over reality. Reflector angles shots from below for power, and they shoot pictures at optic level for a connection. Circuit-level lust, fear, and pride affect the viewers depending on how Reflector frames the shot.
For personal preference, they enjoy taking pictures from above him. There's a sense of unawareness to the shots, of vulnerability that Megatron doesn't usually betray in their pictures of him. The power lies in the optics of the beholder, and it pleases them. It's a pleasure to watch, to set up, to direct, and a thrumming fulfillment to their programming to shoot. They take pictures knowing they are the only viewers of these candid shots, and the satisfaction from holding such images on their harddrives fills their spark. It's like the power-rush from collecting blackmail, although they know they'll never dare use it.
Nor do they want to. When one tames Death, one doesn't tempt fate by playing games. Crossing Megatron never ends well.
Besides, trust is a greater treasure than any single moment captured on film. Today they have Megatron on his back at their feet, and he is calm, a docile weapon of mass destruction under their hands. There isn't a picture they could take that would encapsulate the feeling filling their chests. His massive powerplant rumbles the floor and their feet, and his helm rolls to the side, relaxed, as they fasten the collar around his neck. They take dozens of pictures, hundreds, but what pulses a delicious burn through their interface equipment is the experience itself.
The collar is a clumsy thing. Spectro cobbled it together from cloth stolen during a midnight raid on a craft store. He went by himself, hastily stuffing bolts of random fabric into a bag while counting down toward the arrival of the police. He left right before they arrived. Human attacks could be shrugged off, but the attention inevitably brought by police was unwanted. A nighttime hit-and-run gave news crews nothing to put on TV but speculation and pictures of the damage.
Reflector is a media specialist. They know how public interest works. No one pays attention if there are no live reports or armed police on the scene. The aftermath of a relatively harmless attack on a craft store isn't exciting. The raid barely caused a hitch in local news. Major media outlets didn't even pick it up.
The bolts of fabric became a collar through trial and error: melted, glued, stapled, and knotted together in a crumpled, scrunched band that couldn't look any worse if they'd tried. The faint smell of burnt nylon hangs around it. Ragged edges of tulle and chiffon stick out in translucent, delicate contrast to burlap and polar fleece. A wide section of velvet lies across the front of Megatron's throat, the soft fuzz a rich plush contrast to an equally large patchwork of smooth satin. Or rather, it would have been smooth but for where Spectro accidentally glued his finger and caused a giant run.
The whole thing is an ugly, amateur effort. Reflector is ashamed and proud of it in equal measures.
The floor thrums, burring up through their feet as Megatron's powerplant positively purrs approval. The collar ties shut, laces knotted into a messy bow, a frilly nightmare against his metal bulk. His optics dim as their hands stroke the cloth, and he tips his chin up. The cables and tubing in his neck bare to their touch. His shoulders dig into the floor to arch him into the caress of their small hands, and they smile at his eagerness. It's entirely unfeigned.
The tattered mess they put on him enhances his pleasure. It's the act of collaring that he reacts to so strongly, they think. It's the fact that they obviously made the thing themselves, no one else involved in whatever it is they're doing. It's proof they respect of his privacy, and its existence provides tangible evidence of their own involvement.
Spectro leans over him, one knee resting his negligible weight on the broad silver chest, and he pets. His fingers fondle the collar as much as the sensitive spots Megatron twists to open to him, but if Megatron notices, he at least doesn't seem to mind. Viewfinder and Spyglass bend down, more cloth in hand, to do small tasks. Little things, the kind of maintenance mechs don't leave to the Constructicons. Who wants to have Hook wiping their optics clean or oiling facial joints? Their hands are smaller, anyway, more suited to getting into the crannies of optic shutters and mesh grating over audios.
Their words pour down like hot oil over Megatron, praise and direction, and he soaks it up. "Turn, there. Open wide? That's good, look at those optics. Clean you up, polish you down. Give a scowl, like that, open up the crease there a bit more, ah, nice. Look up. Don't flinch away! No, no, shh, it's okay. It's just a quick wipe at the shutter. Look up. Don't move."
It's the attention he wants, the orders he craves, and meanwhile they look down at him. He is the image they make of him, the angle they choose to shoot from and the situation that frames him, and they have made him what they want.
[* * * * *]