Title: Candy From Strangers, Pt. 3
Warnings: Nonsticky rape, interfacing, fluff, and spanking. Here there be weird things. Also, spoiler alert for MTMTE #12.
Show Rating: R
Continuity: IDW & G1
Characters: First Aid, Metroplex, Whirl/Chromedome, Fortress Maximus, Overlord, Skids, Rung, Pharma
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): Stuff from kinkmemes and random people.
[* * * * *]
"something with First Aid & Metroplex"
[* * * * *]
There were small feet pattering about on his optic. Only First Aid would tip-toe like this, afraid to hurt him. Him, the cityformer whose optic frames could crush the comparatively tiny ambulance if he narrowed them too quickly.
"How's this?" the medic asked worriedly, fussing as he carefully placed his feet. "Is this okay? Tell me if you want me to move. I know the weight tolerance of your optic glass is high, but there's no reason for discomfort when I could just as easily run this scan from on your cheek. As long as that's alright. Should I move?" Little feet shifted when he didn't answer, having assured the Protectobot multiple times already that standing on his optic was just fine. Saying it again would be small comfort at this point.
First Aid finally settled down enough to run his scans. "What can you see?"
"I see you," Metroplex rumbled.
The titan's voice wasn't intentionally tuned to deep bass, but his vocalizer was simply so tremendous that everything touching his metal vibrated with it. First Aid had to take a few quick sidesteps to keep his balance, one arm waving. The other was holding his scanner readout. "That's an improvement, I suppose. I'm getting readings that indicate you're drawing enough power to see the surface of the moon, however. Recalibrate for zoom magnification of 200% and tell me, um," he looked up and glanced around before pointing, "what color is the third feather on the flight pinions on that bird's wing?"
The bird fluttered rapidly through the sky, and First Aid waited expectantly. Under his feet, the giant optical sensor whirred, a hundred rings of light narrowing and expanding in turns. The beams of light washed over the comparatively tiny Autobot standing above it. Only the thick plating of glass separated the medic from Metroplex's inner workings. His feet were suspended above a powerful tool of sight.
"What do you see?" First Aid prompted after the silence had stretched on an oddly long period.
"I see you," the cityformer repeated truthfully, but the pervasive voice had quieted until it was more felt than heard.
Startled, the Protectobot looked away from his readouts to stare downward. A massive optic stared back, functional and fixed on something - someone - who filled his sight completely.
After a while, First Aid knelt to gaze back, one hand resting gently on the glass. The touch was barely there to Metroplex's massive network, yet every sensor was attuned to it.
They didn't move for a long time.
[* * * * *]
Whirl - "handjob" / Chromedome - "gratitude"
[* * * * *]
There was a thing on the Lost Light. A Whirl thing. It didn't get talked about, but somehow everybody knew about it. Nobody knew who had started it, although whispers attributed the blame - or brilliant idea, depending on how who was talking - to Rung. Not that the psychotherapist had ever been in the unofficial, not-talked-about schedule, but it just seemed like a Rung idea. Lessen shipboard tension by dulling Whirl's sharp-edged personality a bit? It was either Rung or Ultra Magnus who'd come up with it, and nobody could quite picture the Duly Appointed Enforcer subtly suggesting and organizing a sex schedule.
So everybody knew that Whirl was getting laid regularly, and it was kind of helping. He hadn't torn a strip off of Swerve for shooting Rung, at least, and he'd even seemed to be mellowing toward Cyclonus. He wasn't exactly a pleasant mech to be around, obnoxious rude glitch that he was, but he didn't start brawls in the bar and he could reliably be found at Rewind's movie nights just hanging out in the crowd. He didn't even actively attack Fortress Maximus' brig cell anymore.
Huh. It must have been Rung. Ultra Magnus himself seemed vaguely surprised by Whirl's lack of instantaneous violence nowadays. It didn't make sense that he'd be surprised by the results of his own work, so yeah. Poor Rung must have set things up.
Knowing about the schedule and getting on it were two entirely different things, however. Chromedome finally tracked down the two main volunteers, mainly by accident. Swerve had a big mouth, and everybody knew that he was good for a roll in the berth, but Chromedome hadn't know that the bartender had been taking over more and more slots lately until Swerve's name kept popping up on when the mnemosurgeon tried to find out who was next. And next. And next after that. Trying to find the next mech on the schedule so he could take a slot kept leading him back to the bartender, but Swerve was out of commission until his face was reconstructed.
"When will that be?" Chromedown asked Ambulon impatiently. "Two days from now? A week?"
The taciturn ward manager didn't even look up from sorting parts. "Three to four days, and two more off-duty to let the welds settle. Why?"
There was little need for fancy wording around Ambulon, of all mechs. "Will he be on his feet in time for his turn interfacing with Whirl?" the mnemosurgeon asked bluntly.
"No," Ambulon said back, tone bland. "I can't take any more slots while the medibay's backed up like this, either, so Tailgate volunteered." He looked up at last and let his mouth quirk in an unamused smirk. "Cyclonus was not pleased."
Chromedome didn't give a flying wingnut whether Cyclonus had stood up and applauded. The Decepticon could go smelt himself, in the mnemosurgeon's considered opinion. Ambulon had given him the needed information, so he kept his peace and called it good enough. "When is your next slot? I'd like to take one for - "
"I'm sorry, but no," that bland tone cut him off, and Ambulon went back to sorting parts. "I'm not interested in giving up any my slots." The tone might have been bland, but there was iron refusal to discuss the decision lurking in the words. "Try Tailgate. Maybe Cyclonus' disapproval will make a difference."
Unfortunately, Tailgate seemed oddly reluctant to give up any of his new slots with Whirl. "Look, don't take this the wrong way," he told the taller mech in an apologetic voice, "but I think I could use it more than you right now. You've got Rewind, after all." There was a flicker of covered optics toward the empty side of the habitation suite. "Frankly, I've got charge with nowhere to go, and Swerve said - well, there's a reason why he takes every slot nobody else grabs." There was a faintly embarrassed air to his EM field, but it was covered by the glitter of anticipation and the fluttery ebb and flow of lusty charge.
Chromedome stared for a moment. This, he had not predicted. For one thing, he'd never thought of this particular mech as a randy 'bot, but the charge coming off him was enough to arouse a drone. He had to shake himself to get loose of it. "You must be joking. You won't give me a single slot? For Primus' sake, you know why I want it!"
"I know." The newbie Autobot looked a little concerned. "Is that healthy, Chromedome? I don't know why it's like these days, but paying off a debt with sex seems a bit…wrong?"
Oh. Putting it that way did cast it in a questionable light. "I'm not trying to pay a debt," the mnemosurgeon huffed, crossing his arms before he could stop the defensive gesture. "I simply want to express my gratitude in a way I think Whirl may believe more than he did my words." He'd felt the rotary mech's doubt even as he'd hugged him. Whirl hadn't believed he meant what he said even while trying to swamp Rewind's personal savior with sincerity. He owed Whirl, and he wanted Whirl to know how much he appreciated what the mech had done.
Tailgate shifted uneasily, his charge tempered by concern, and Chromedome reluctantly pulled out the big guns.
"You know, Cyclonus will feel his field on you for at least a day afterward."
He'd have felt guilty about how fast he got Tailgate's two slots after that, but Chromedome didn't do guilt. Especially when it came to the most obvious (and revolting) crush on the Lost Light. Rewind claimed Cyclonus had put himself between the memory stick and the bomb, but that didn't mitigate everything else the fragger had done.
Regardless, he got the slots and watched the time count down to the first appointment with a case of jitters he hadn't expected. It was just interfacing. A quick screw. He didn't know what was up with Ambulon and Swerve grabbing slots so often, but nobody had ever mentioned the thing with Whirl being a hideous chore. Except for his less-than-stellar personality, the ex-Wrecker wasn't a bad sort to look at. He wasn't all that attractive to Chromedome personally, but through the filters of personal hero and abject appreciation, he was slagging gorgeous.
When the time came, he patted Rewind's hand and leaned down to press his forehelm to his tiny friend's. The shimmering projection of electromagnetic energy off Rewind's tired circuitry was the biggest comfort he'd ever felt. And Whirl had prevented that weary little EM field from disappearing from Chromedome's world forever. "I've got something I need to do," the mnemosurgeon murmured. The memory stick was almost in recharge anyway, his body laboring to integrate all the patches First Aid had put on him. "I'll be back. I promise."
It was hard to leave Rewind alone for any length of time. He tore himself away and walked out of their habitation suite quickly before he lingered any longer.
He stopped in front of Whirl's door wondering how he should approach this. Indecision wasn't something he was used to. It was just that…he'd thought about outright offering to interface with the rotary mech, but Whirl had a way of making every offered kindness seem like an attack. As a rule, Chromedome had noticed that Whirl rejected as pity most things mechs tried to give him. It was like the ex-Wrecker had gotten so used to bad things that he didn't know how to handle the good anymore.
Freely offered good, in any case. The schedule thing, on the other hand, seemed to be working out. Chromedome tapped the access pad and politely pinged. "Whirl?"
The door opened. "Eh?" For a faceless mech, Whirl managed to look confused pretty well. "Whaddya want, domehead?" He hopped a step back and gave an exaggerated cringe. "No more hugging!"
And that shining personality reared its ugly head. Chromedome narrowed his visor slightly and stepped forward. "I'm here for what you want, actually." The door slid shut behind him.
He was close enough that he felt the sweep of amusement and bafflement go through the rotary mech's EM field. "I know this's a bit obvious, but I feel like I gotta point out how un-Tailgate-ish you're looking today, Tailgate." Whirl's head cocked. "You okay? Have some lousy energon or something? You shouldn't drink anything in Swerve's personal stash. Trust me, I know." He held a pincer to his head to mime a hangover. "You wake up as somebody else, lemme tell ya."
Sadly, the mech probably thought he was hilarious. Even stark gratitude couldn't make Chromedome laugh at his bad jokes, however. "Cyclonus apparently doesn't approve of Tailgate 'facing you," the mnemosurgeon said somewhat snidely. "I can't imagine why."
Upon hearing that, weirdly, Whirl went very still. He stared unblinking at the shorter Autobot for a long moment, and a cold salting of some unidentifiable emotion spattered his field.
Chromedome stared back, taken off-guard by his reaction. He'd expected the ex-Wrecker to crack another poor joke, maybe mock the Decepticon, not…this. Whatever this was.
After a too long, Whirl turned away and shrugged his shoulders. "Figures."
Because that wasn't cryptic at all. "What do you mean?"
"Nothin'." The tall mech walked over to the nearest berth and flopped down. "So. How you want to do this?"
Chromedome followed, trying to push aside the curiosity and odd case of nerves he still suffered. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Stopping when he was in front of the seated mech, he raised a hand and put it on Whirl's cockpit. "This is for your benefit, after all."
Whirl's benefit, not his, but interfacing with the big Autobot served his purposes right now. He couldn't find any other way to convey just how much he owed this mech. The rush of gratitude returned. Under the glass and heavy layers of protective casing beat the V-Positive spark that had the strength of pulse his own didn't. He was envious of that fact, but so, so grateful for it. Rewind's spark had been jumpstarted by this spark. This spark had saved the tiny Autobot, and in saving him, had saved Chromedome in turn.
The mnenosurgeon suddenly crowded close, pushing his wordless appreciation through his field as hard as he could as he put both hands flat on the glass in stunned recognition of just how close he'd come to losing Rewind. There but for the grace of Whirl did they live. "Whirl, I can't tell you how - "
"Ambulon screws me," the ex-Wrecker cut him off, EM field as level as his voice. Although his field held dark, wary shadows his voice didn't betray. "Puts my legs over his shoulders and drills away so hard and fast the threads once friction-heated so much the berth caught fire." Chromedome's head snapped back, and his visor widened until the frame creaked protest. "Swerve uses his mouth until I'm almost done and then lets me screw him, but that's not an option with you, is it? What with the mask. And I don't think you've got a built-in tap-expander like Swerve does." Whirl cocked his head. "Do you? I mean, frag, I dunno if whatever you use to 'face the runt's gonna work with me - "
"That is hardly any of your - " A deep in-vent interrupted his reflexive interruption. Whirl seemed to specialize in getting a rise out of mechs. This was positively restrained, compared to how he usually was. Chromedome chalked it up to awareness of this being a volunteer service. "…no," he said more quietly, but curtly. His tap modifications only made it capable of downshifting, not up. "It will not work."
It made him think about what would, and his mind was abruptly filled with images he'd never previously considered. Imagining Swerve's wide, expressive mouth shaping an ecstatic 'O' as he overloaded wasn't a new frag-fantasy, but that same mouth sucking on a screw? That had to be stopped and considered. Vivid technicolor imaginings of that ever-present smile puckering down to a tight hole, broad lips pressing down to flatten against Whirl's hips. A blowjob wasn't something Chromedome had ever gotten. It wasn't a terribly popular thing anyway, what with the charge-shock discharge that came with a happy ending, but the image caught in his mind's optics. Swerve on his knees, mouth busy but likely mumbling because he probably never stopped talking…mmm. Okay, that was something the mnemosurgeon was going to have to bring up to Rewind later. It was a vision that should be recorded for posterity.
His visor had trailed down to eye Whirl's hips. He swallowed, picturing them fitting between Swerve's legs as the rotary mech took the smaller Autobot. Was it hard and fast, or did Whirl try to make it last? He imagined the scrape of metal as a screw spiraled in and out of a barely-compatible tap, the threads rasping and conducting and oh great, speaking of hard and fast, now he couldn't unsee Ambulon holding Whirl down on the berth. This berth. His visor flicked further down, sizing up the rotary mech's gangly legs and picturing them thrown over the ward manager's shoulders. The medic probably folded the larger Autobot in half and traded surges with every piston of badly-painted hips right there in the middle of this berth. Or maybe on the end, with Whirl hanging half off it while Ambulon stood there with his hands planted on the berth surface. Frag, maybe the medic grabbed the edge of the berth for leverage and pulled himself in.
That was a surprisingly hot image, but it wasn't one he'd ever thought he'd have.
Whirl pointedly reset his vocalizer, and Chromedome jerked his head back up. The palms of his hands were heating as both he and Whirl's circuitry transmitted the excess charge of arousal. It bounced back and forth between them, and Chromedome did nothing to stop it. He also didn't stop the pincers closing gently around his hip projections and holding on like they were handles.
Those pincers guided him forward as Whirl moved back on the berth, and Chromedome found himself hoisted up by the hips to kneel astride the same gangly legs he'd been imagining kicking uncontrollably as Ambulon drilled in and out. His knees tightened around Whirl's thighs, and his chest pressed between the rotary mech's chest-mounted guns. Increased surface area only boosted the charge transmission, and his hands slid up the glass to rest lightly on Whirl's shoulders.
"Yeah. So, like I said. How you want to do this?" the ex-Wrecker asked roughly.
It took him a second to find his voice. It was low, and he was no longer nervous. "We're not compatible, screw and tap. I'm too small."
Whirl snorted. "I'm too big, you mean."
Chromedome paused, blinking his visor. "…right. We could make it work if I screw you?" It came out as a suggestion, because he wasn't sure the ex-Wrecker would be into that. He himself would prefer not to go that route, to be honest. There were ways to stimulate a tap with an incompatible screw, but they didn't have the expander necessary to fit Whirl into Chromedome's too-small tap, and Chromedome wasn't fond of the hip contortions he'd have to do to catch the inner threads of Whirl's too-large tap. Interfacing that way was too vigorous for his taste.
He tried to keep his opinion on it out of his EM field. Whatever Whirl wanted, he'd be more than willing to comply with. It'd be his pleasure, even if it wasn't physically pleasing.
"Uh." The sole optic scanned him. "I was kinda thinking of something else. I mean, if it's okay. I'm not pushing." He seemed to realize that he was still holding the smaller Autobot's hip projections, and a ripple of anxiety went through Whirl's field. He let go of Chromedome like he'd been burnt. "No pressure!"
That was unexpected. Somebody had obviously put the fear of neutering into Whirl at some point. That was something of a relief for Chromedome. He was a sturdy build, but he didn't enjoy the rough stuff. It was nice knowing he didn't have to worry about unwanted attention and 'no means no.' "What did you want?" he asked, trying to coax the anxious ripple down with another surge of lust-charge.
Whirl looked at him, then away. No, not away. He was looking to the side at one of Chromedome's hands.
The mnemosurgeon flexed it, experimenting, and the shudder that went through Whirl was a dead give-away even if a molten flow of charge hadn't snapped over the rotary mech's circuits hard enough to electrify his armor. The energy transmitted from metal to metal, and Chromedome jolted on the bigger Autobot's lap. His circuitry absorbed the foreign energy, and it felt good. He'd forgotten what it was like to have a lover large enough to drown his body in charge. Whirl's overload would zap him into an overload of his own even if they didn't screw the traditional way.
That sounded surprisingly good. He was used to being the larger partner now, but that hadn't always been true. Overloading by electromagnetic energy only was something he hadn't done in a while, and his interface hardware tingled pleasantly as he remembered past interfacing. The charge would be highest through the biggest point of contact, and his hands? A powerful influx of energy over the specialized, sensitive equipment stored in his hands. That…oh, yes. He'd take that, please and thank you. Rewind couldn't produce more than a third of the discharge a mech Whirl's size gave off.
This could be a very nice bit of stress relief for both of them tonight.
"Handjob it is," he breathed, leaning forward to nuzzle his facial mask against Whirl's canopy glass. He pushed a last glow of gratitude through his EM field, still trying to convince the mech of his sincerity, before letting lust bubble up to take over. "Lay back. I'll take care of you from here." He wriggled his fingers against blue shoulders, gambling that it was the lack of hands of his own that turned the ex-Wrecker on. It seemed he was right, as every individual touch of his fingertips produced a hot drip of arousal, tugging desire in a crawling climb from Whirl's pelvic span to coat the large Autobot's whole body.
"Yeah. Great. So, uh." Whirl reset his vocalizer again as he leaned back on his elbows, and a squirming hint of embarrassment infected his EM field. Chromedome paused in exploring the underside of the mech's prominent cockpit. What in the Pit could possibly embarrass an ex-Wrecker? "I get kinda loud," the spindly Autobot confessed, and his optic glanced away to avoid looking at the brightly-colored mech astride him. "And…specific. I don't know if that's going to be turn-off for you or not, but I can shut off my vocalizer if you want." One pincer lifted up to rub against the side of Whirl's faceless head, and the embarrassment flattened into a kind of muted anger. It didn't seem directed at Chromedome; just anger at the universe in general. "You probably will. Just tell me when you get sick of - yeah. When you're done."
What did that even mean? "I'll be fine," Chromedome assured him briskly, resolving to shut off his audios before he asked Whirl to shut off his vocalizer. Volume wouldn't be a problem, but he pondered what 'specific' meant as he put his hands back to work.
Whirl hesitated before slowly laying flat under him, letting him do as he wished. The smaller Autobot took his time discovering the complicated workings of a mech more used to pain than pleasure. That was the frustrating yet fun part about being living machines. He could download Whirl's design specs and still not have a clue what turned the mech on. Cybertronians were forged with body parts that responded in varying ways to stimulus, but it was how they learned to react to that stimulus that determined true reactions. Stroking Rewind's shoulder spauldings, according to his frametype, should have reduced the little memory stick to putty in Chromedome's hands, but he only shrugged when handled there. Touch his camera, however, and he'd flare arousal so fiercely certain stations would pick it up as a broadcast.
In much the same way, stroking his palms over Whirl's stabilizers produced nothing but an interested hum from the mech's inner workings. Butting his helm against the chest-mounted guns caused the blue Autobot's interface hatch to snap open. Massaging his fingers around the canopy seals made that heavy-lift engine turn over, thrumming directly down Whirl's legs to vibrate against Chromedome's inner thighs, but delicately tracing his rotor assembly sent Whirl's screw spiraling up to nudge Chromedome in the chest.
The mnemosurgeon took a moment to look at it, letting his hands distract Whirl by prodding into the gun barrels while he gave the screw a critical once-over. It didn't look all that special. The threads were more prominent than normal, practically ridges standing out from the thin inner diameter, but he couldn't see this being why Swerve and Ambulon were greedily hording the schedule slots. The thicker threads would create a more uneven charge transmission as a tap with shallower inner threads wouldn't lock with them. It'd force the energy to build to a certain point before it'd transfer through the sparser contact points, but that wasn't an uncommon phenomenon when two different frametypes fragged.
Whirl certainly wasn't standing out as a lover so far. He was mostly just lying there under Chromedome, which admittedly was sort of what the smaller mech had told him to do, but still. The passiveness was strange.
Then Chromedome took his hands away from Whirl's gun barrels and applied them to the screw, and…well, then. This was…different.
Different, but not bad at all. He let his fingers slide between the threads, gliding his palms over the crests. His hands deftly gave a half-twist that'd once driven Prowl to stop reading his blasted reports in the berth, and he paused to listen to the result.
Whirl's voice pitched higher. " - have no idea what that's doing to me. Primus! You've got the touch, that's like nothing I've ever felt! Oh, do that again, do it again, you could do this for a fragging living with hands like that. No joke. I'd pay for thisss…ah. Ah. Harder, yeah, mm, down the helix like that. Your thumb! Primus! That's so good it can't be legal. You can do those little circles forever yeah, nngh. Forever. Just crook your forefinger right there, unh, right there, do it again ah. Ahhh. Ah. Do it nnaa-hhh yes! Do it again and I'll do anything you want. Guh, yes. Yes! Like that, just like that - "
So that's what he'd meant by specific. Chromedome was amused, but mostly just wildly flattered. He smoothed and petted, hands working the screw from the blunt tip down and then dragging back-and-forth twists upward to gradually saw his palms over the ridge peaks. He rubbed his fingers down in the grooves, the smooth plating of his hands slicking over the rough metal of the roots and sides of every ridge. A few sparks friction-shiiinged when his fingers scraped too hard, but Whirl didn't seem to mind. In fact, he was extremely vocal in his appreciation. Chromedome was beginning to see how he and Ambulon had set the berth on fire, if a few strokes filing down Whirl's thread helix had the rotary mech deliriously praising Primus and praying for harder, better, faster.
Whirl's voice got louder, going from high squeaks when Chromedome dragged the length of his fingers across the screw tip, to guttural and low when the mnemosurgeon applied both hands to the base. It turned, speeding up as the charge built and it drilled between his hands. The nonstop stream-of-consciousness babble just kept coming. For every blush of rising energy pulled from hard-working systems, Whirl poured another dosage of praise over Chromedome. It was almost as intoxicating as the lap of charge bleeding up the smaller Autobot's thighs, setting his own body afire with the shared pleasure of a slow build toward the peak.
" - broke the mold when they cast your blassted hands, swear to Primus, never felt anything like this. I never want this to stop, I don't, just keep going, yessss. Like that. Oh Primus oh Primus oh splay me open and do whatever the Pit you want! Just do it!" Whirl writhed and groaned, head thrown back and hips bucking. "Hands made by Primus himseeeeeh oh eh yes. That's incredible. Whatever you just did, please please do it again! Uhmmm like that! That! Fragging magic, I'm not even kidding, is this even real? Is this actually happening - okay yes, point made, that's actually your hand on my screw and I'll take five more of that, please."
If Whirl was like this every time he got a frag, no wonder Ambulon and Swerve were snapping up every open slot. Chromedome's visor had dimmed to a sultry gold as he listened, and his body rocked instinctively against Whirl's thighs, seeking more of the pleasure soaking him. The conversation wasn't exactly intellectual, but his ego was rolling in it. This was like a soundtrack for future masturbation. How good of a lover was he? Whirl was apparently most happy to tell him, in explicit detail. The narration only got louder when Chromedome scooted back and patted a thigh suggestively. One leg kicked convulsively under him, but the rotary mech's knees snapped apart.
Heavy panting broke up the words now as every vent fan switched on full and Chromedome's fingers started exploring Whirl's tap in slow, inward-spiraling licks of charge. The rougher internal threads caught even more against his fingertips, and although he couldn't see the sparks, his fingertips shocked pleasantly as friction scraped them into a tiny internal rain. Whirl arched up on the berth and bucked his hips into the teasing circles, and his fans weren't keeping up with the heat making his cockpit canopy steam up.
" - node hasn't gotten switched on since before the war en-dedunnnh. Yeah, put your finger on that thread and - so good, that feels so good, uhhfffffright, okay, the frag-fairy came down and blessed whatever finger you just used to ahhhh. Ahhh, unnnff. Nnngh. Yes. Whatever finger you did that with, do it again. Put your thumb on that againnnmmm. Just like that. Put your hand up my taaaaah. Aah-ah-ah-ummhh. You're breaking my brain module. It's broken. It's coming out my tap. You've got your hand so far up me you could pull it out. Just do it. Take it out and throw it somewhere. I don't need it. Not gonna use it. Just gonna lie here and…twitch. Yeah. Sounds good! Yeeeek cold cold, those are coooold - whoa, hey!" Whirl suddenly went very still. His head tilted enough to see around his own chest, and his optic was very wide. "Are those…what I think they are?"
"If you think they're my injectors," Chromedome said, concentrating as he began to stroke down the screw in front of him with one hand and plinked up inside Whirl's tap with the other, "then you're right." The long, thin needles rattled and scraped, swirling and whispering and creating a miniature lightning storm of unpredictable energy transmissions inside the larger Autobot's tap.
Whirl's engine screamed. His monologue wasn't far behind. " - god of fragging kinky 'facing, a fragging god! Oh sweet merciful overload take me, I'm so ready nngggh, nevermind, I want more! More, please, yes yes yes yes yesss uhn-uh-ah-uhn yes - "
Forget demonstrating his gratitude. This was self-indulgent pleasure at this point, feeding off the addictive flow of praise and the purring rise of charge rapidly pulsing up their meshing fields in expanding surges that were approaching overload. He'd have to find another way to show his appreciation, because this Whirl thing was like the Lost Light's hidden porn show. This was getting him off so hard he was going to talk Whirl into another round if the discharge didn't knock him out.
Chromedome was totally bringing Rewind along to the second slot. This was something close friends shared. Between them, if they brought an expander and Whirl was into the idea.
Maybe they could sign up for a regular spot on the schedule, too. Might have to fight off Ambulon and Swerve to do it, but this?
" - I can't, I can't even, I can't, I just can't, you're too good, too good, I can't deal with it, I can't, I can't - "
This was worth it.
[* * * * *]
Fortress Maximus - "force-feeding"
[* * * * *]
Warning: Overlord's not a good guy.
He opened his mouth for anything. It was available for whatever Overlord wanted to put in it: the Phase Sixer's screw, the screw of every Decepticon privileged enough to be allowed to use him, parts of his own dead garrison scraped off the floor or taken off the hooks hanging from the ceiling, the tools chosen to torture him that day. Anything it pleased Overlord to shove in.
That was the bargain. Despite torture and interrogation of himself or others, Fortess Maximus refused to hand over the information the Decepticon really wanted, so Overlord had targeted an area with more room to compromise. The item of real value was out of reach, but Overlord made his own consolation prize. Hence, the bargain: Fortress Maximus let Overlord use his mouth however he wanted, and Overlord stopped using the mouths of the prison warden's remaining guards. Be it rape, pain, or (rarely and most horrifically) pleasure, Overlord left their mouths alone and focused on their leader's as long as that mouth was willing.
It was a bad deal, heavily coerced. Fort Max had no way of knowing if the Decepticons who'd overrun the penitentiary were forcing his mechs elsewhere. Overlord, as a Decepticon, had no reason to keep his word. The tortured Autobot knew it, but what choice did he have? He could refuse the bargain and watch in helpless fury as his guards were punished for his refusal, or agree and at least hope the appearance of a deal was enough to spare them. Overlord had no other reason to let them be, after all.
No reason but the enjoyment of spending an entire afternoon thrusting his fingers in and out, in and out of a reluctantly compliant mouth. Overlord wasn't even looking at the prison warden chained to the floor beside him, chin propped on his knee. The enormous Phase Sixer was paging through reports and watching the chaos of the combat rink below, merely using his captive's mouth as an idle pastime to keep his hand busy, but that was good.
It was good because Fortress Maximus knew that the Decepticon's full attention meant worse than three fingers plunging deep enough to gag him. Two fingers scraped over the roof of his mouth. A thumb forced his jaw open, making room to join the two fingers and pinch his tongue. A large forefinger rasped through the tender hole where three of his denta had been pulled out at the roots. All four fingers filled him, stretching his lips wide around Overlord's hand as it violated every corner of his mouth, and the chained Autobot sucked, licked, and nibbled in response.
He never, ever bit. That was the bargain. His mouth would be pleasing, or his mechs' would take his place in all the very worst ways and then some. He had no doubt that freely offering his mouth was the better bargain, however rigged the bargain was. Overlord possessed a graphic turn of phrase, and where he'd failed in describing, well, he'd brought in visual aids and done some demonstrations on Fort Max himself. The Autobot would grimly watch his mechs scream and die to protect Aequitas, but when it came to just playing Overlord sick games for entertainment? Trading his own body for theirs in this torture was the only way he had left to fulfill his duty of care for them any longer.
So his chin was on Overlord's knee, his mouth receptive to the Decepticon fingers sliding in and out, and he lavished them with every trick he'd ever picked up or - more recent and terrible - been taught. Later, he'd pamper something else just as devoutly. He'd put his tongue out and lap, tongue obligingly curled between the sharp ridges that'd make his jaw ache when discharge electrocuted him. It wasn't something he looked forward to, but there were worse ways for the Phase Sixer to amuse himself.
And that's what Fort Max was trying to avoid, with his chin propped up and his lips closed around thick fingers. His tongue licked around Overlord's knuckle joints, and he hoped - he prayed - that Overlord would stay distracted. Let the reports take more time than usual. Let the match end in a stalemate. Let today be different.
He desperately wanted those fingertips to keep playfully squeezing his tongue. It meant that Overlord wasn't really paying attention to him, and he'd rather be a background amusement than the main entertainment. That was better than the alternative.
Better than the spoonfuls of fuel being held up with a mocking smile. Better than when the spoon was held forward until the bargain made the Autobot open his mouth, because he had to open his mouth. Then the spoon would slip into his mouth and tip slowly to dribble the energon across his tongue. Overlord smiled and made him taste it. He hand-fed him, forcing the fuel on him, savoring the way the prison warden flinched despite himself as the fuel coated his tongue and lingered on his intake aperture. Fortress Maximus had to swallow Overlord's amused laughter with every mouthful of fuel fed to him straight from dead mechs' bodies.
He opened his mouth for anything, but he couldn't always keep down what was forced in.
[* * * * *]
Fortress Maximus - "I already know how it ends; that exit is blocked"
[* * * * *]
Warning: Seriously, Overlord's not nice.
Before it ended, before the final conclusion was reached, Overlord left Garrus 9. He left, and he took his broken pet with him.
It was boredom that motivated him. Megatron had not come. There was much violence to be found in the chaos of war, and waiting for a warlord far away to notice him waiting all the way across the vast galactic battlefield had worn thin. There were other important strongholds he could destroy, and other stands he could take. Megatron would eventually find him impossible to ignore, and then? Then the fight would be glorious.
The fate of Garrus 9 amused him. He'd known the Autobots wished to retake it, but he hadn't been aware of the Wreckers being slated to storm the penitentiary. They must have found it a ridiculously easy mission, going in expecting him and getting only the Decepticon unit he'd used to take the place. He chuckled to himself, imagining the carnage the Wreckers must have carved through the weakling cannon fodder he'd abandoned. If he'd known the Wreckers were on their way, he'd have stayed a while longer. Aequitas must have been worth something after all if the Autobots had been willing to send in their "best" troops. Overlord was certain he'd have gotten a better fight from them than he'd had since arriving at the prison.
Ah, well. Next time, perhaps.
To give them proper motivation for that future fight, he called the penitentiary from his shuttle. He had all the command codes, still. It only took the minion Autobot who answered one look to pass the comm. call up the chain of command. Perhaps it was Overlord's lazy grin that alarmed the Autobot so. It was the expression of a glutted predator looking to kill again: insane and calculating at the same time. Or perhaps it was how he held his pet leaning against his shoulder, utterly ruined and stifling despairing sobs as Overlord made sure the communication console's camera caught a good view of what he was making the mech submit to.
It wasn't a new torture, or even a particularly painful one. He thought, and it entertained him to see that there was still enough pride left in the Autobot for this, that it was enduring the humiliation of witnesses that was provoking the soft keen. How cute. He would have to exploit that at some further date.
For now, he merely used his pet's writhing shame to taunt the furious Wrecker glaring at him from the screen. "You could have saved him, had you come sooner, but...tsk. Too late. Now he's mine." He lowered his head and tenderly kissed the side of the black helm lolling back on his shoulder, angling his fingers to draw out a low groan for their audience's edification. "All mine," he purred, an assurance and threat directed at both Autobots.
His pet shuddered. The green Autobot on the screen still had the steel in him, however, and didn't flinch. Overlord looked forward to the day he'd pull that steel out through the mech's face.
"We will hunt you down," Springer said, level and deadly. "We will hunt you down and kill you."
Overlord smiled pleasantly. "Oh? I cannot tell you how afraid I am. How afraid am I?'' He freed one hand from its business, ignoring the moaning cry that provoked, and tapped a finger against his lower lip. "I need to show you how afraid I am. My dearest pet, I think you should serve as illustration." A pathetic whine came from the repaired but completely broken Autobot he held on his lap. Now that he needed no information from the mind inside, the body had been so simple to twist to his desires. The struggle of the mind to resist had only added to how he'd relished crafting that body into the perfect pet around it. "Fetch me a toy, Fortress Maximus, and I'll use you to show your friends how afraid I am." His dark voice laughed, and the sound held perverse warm contrasted to the cold words it said next. "Or would that be how unafraid I am? I suppose it depends on what toy you bring me, and how angry they become while watching me demonstrate it on you."
Fortress Maximus whimpered as he was pushed off his tormentor's lap. He looked up at the screen, expression pained, shamed, and pleading, but Springer could only helplessly look back at him. The ex-warden bowed his head and went to get Overlord a 'toy.' The broken Autobot couldn't escape when the exit was blocked.
This wasn't how it ended, but it wasn't over yet.
[* * * * *]
Overlord - "I like the lip better."
[* * * * *]
Warning: Overlord = bad.
It was a matter of aesthetics.
The glossa hid the piercing behind closed lips, but pulling on the chain brought it into view. That made it obvious that the glossa itself was meant for his pleasure, not its owner's, as well as making it impossible to speak. Bringing his pet's talented, well-trained glossa out for display had its appeal, yes, but…
"I believe I like the lip better," Overlord murmured, and Fortress Maximus winced.
It was a long, slow motion, more like the ex-prison warden shrank into himself than actually recoiled from his captor. The quick flashes of horror had become something of the past. What remained were the humiliations of submission and the pains that lingered. Fast motions meant he had no time to think, and that was bad. Thinking of the consequences of instinctual terror was becoming reflex. To jerk away from Overlord every time the agony hit or shame overwhelmed common sense was to accept that he'd be punished for trying to escape.
The Autobot wanted to escape, by Primus he did, but he'd learned his lessons in the time since he'd been taken away from Garrus-9. His…owner had taught him well. Give Overlord the slightest leverage, and the Phase Sixer could train a rock to sit up and beg on command. Give him a powerful Autobot, and he'd make a pet of him.
Fortress Maximus reached up with unnaturally steady hands to accept the chain leash Overlord held down for him. The thing was more of a symbol than a real restraint; giving it to his pet to hold was like setting it on a piece of furniture for the Decepticon. Only more satisfying, because the ex-warden obediently kept his hands up and his own leash lying across his palms waiting for his tormentor to retrieve it. His face was already uplifted for easy access. His bleak expression didn't change as he tamely opened his mouth for the huge fingers that brushed across his lips.
The end of the leash laid cold and heavy over Fort Max's bottom lip, and Overlord wound the thin length of the chain around a forefinger. That finger tugged for the flinch of pain it got. The stud punched through his pet's glossa had a ring set on the underside. The leash had been fastened there. Every tug pulled the stud against the fresh piercing. It was, as he'd ensured earlier, excruciatingly painful if yanked on.
The first time, his pet had choked on a scream at the unexpected jolt of agony. It'd been quite amusing watching the big Autobot hastily stumble to follow where the chain pulled him. Overlord had hardly needed to expend effort to leash-train the mech when the threat of continued pain did it for him. The glossa piercing had paid off well, he felt. A small initial pain for such a large result.
The ex-warden was better disciplined now, grimly prepared not to give his captor anymore satisfaction than he had to, but that didn't make the shooting stabs of pain through his jaw hurt any less. He kept his optics dimmed and averted. Refusing to react was the only defiance he could afford to hang on to. Anything else had been trained out of him with brutally meticulous care.
Overlord rumbled amusement from his power plant and let him keep his silence. If it was screams the Decepticon wanted, there were a myriad of ways to get them. Perhaps he would indulge himself later and teach a small lesson about when and how his pet's pain should be demonstrated for his enjoyment. The stoic surrender could be tiresome at times.
In the meantime, Decepticon forced three fingers and his thumb into the skilled mouth opened for his pleasure. He made sure to thrust them in too far, leisurely reaffirming his ownership. Not that Fortress Maximus fought him over that anymore, but it didn't lessen Overlord's pleasure in marking his claim again. He stroked over the surfaces of the mech's denta, petting his pet quite intimately, and chuckled softly when the intake against his middle finger flexed helplessly. The thick finger circled delicately, brushing around and around the circumference of the intake before nudging into it.
It convulsed around his fingertip as he pushed it in and out in miniscule motions that did nothing but stimulate the sensitive aperture valve. A curl of his finger held it open yet further, and Fortress Maximus gagged as his tanks pinged him. Overlord delighted in how the Autobot shook slightly, fighting off a purge. Purging his tanks over Overlord's feet never ended well.
By the time the larger mech withdrew his hand enough to finally unclip the end of the chain leash under Fort Max's tongue, the Autobot had his optics off. His mouth remained open, but his face had twisted up into an expression of revulsion tempered by determination. He would not purge. He could not purge.
Overlord's plush lips curved in a pleased smile. "Well done," he complimented his pet softly, because the words burned and he knew it.
He let his fingers smooth over the Autobot's lower lip again, clinking off the ring he'd set into it earlier when the aesthetic debate had begun. The leash clipped onto it, and ah. Yes. Much better. Nothing made it so clear how far this mech had been broken than to have the method of control out on the open. It was nothing but a thin chain attached to a lip ring. The ex-warden of Garrus 9 could tear it out in a moment if he hadn't been taught not to.
Instead, he was going to follow Overlord like a good pet, right out into the busy spacestation. The Decepticons who worked the station would take one look at him and know how far he'd fallen. It was there for all to see in how he stood in Overlord's shadow, knelt beside his chair, and crawled into his lap on command. The leash held out on open palms right now could be offered to anyone Overlord chose to give him to, and Fortress Maximus would follow the pull no matter who was on the other end so long as his tormentor was the one who gifted the leash away. He'd learned his place, and it was wherever - or under whomever - Overlord told him it was.
The Phase Sixer merely tugged gently on the lip ring for now, half a warning against and half a test of his pet's attitude. It seemed it wouldn't be a problem today, however. The ex-warden subserviently lifted the leash up toward him in response. He loved how the Autobot's helm had already bent, optics down to covertly study his every move. Even from this angle, the expression of dull defeat was obvious. His pet was ready to serve, to anticipate which way he'd step next, which way the pull would come from, where he was expected to follow now.
He gave the chain hanging from Fortress Maximus' lip a last considering look as he picked the leash up again and twined it around his forefinger. It did indeed look best like this.
"Heel, Maxy."
[* * * * *]
PICTURE ON Ao3
"Heel, Maxy" by Shibara
[* * * * *]
[* * * * *]
Rung - "a mean drunk"
[* * * * *]
"Uh…I don't…what?" For once, even Whirl looked uneasy. He glanced at Skids, then away with every indication of acute discomfort. "Call whoever's in charge of this clusterfrag and tell 'em I've got conflict of interest."
Skids stared at him as a break from gaping at the wreckage of Swerve's bar. "You are claiming exemption from action?"
If the rotary mech were any other Autobot, he'd have been squirming in anxiety and embarrassment. Whirl just glared. "I've had this held over my head once on this trip already. I don't need anyone saying I roughed him up taking him down to the drunk tank!" His voice dropped to a mumble. "Nobody'd believe my side of the story. They never do."
"Trust me. Right now?" The theoretician looked back into the bar. "I'd back you to the hilt. So come on." He pushed the door open the rest of the way and sidled in.
Whirl hesitated a minute more before shaking his stabilizers back and clomping after his fellow brute squad member. Time to earn his nonexistent paycheck. He'd insist on hazard pay, but it wasn't like he was formally part of the Ship's Guard or anything. Neither of them were. Ultra Magnus hadn't given Whirl a choice about being recruited into doing the nasty work, and Skids didn't have anything better to do. Apparently, the Lost Light's executive officer thought he needed the ex-Wrecker under his thumb at all times, and Skids had proven himself rather resourceful - if not exactly rule-abiding - when he'd gone gallivanting about the ship during the sparkeater incident. They'd somehow ended up partnered up and working for Ultra Magnus without officially working for him.
Which was fine, because an ex-Wrecker left at loose ends was a bad idea all around, and Skids could kick enough aft when he chose to that he could keep up with Whirl. They got along just fine on-duty, and Skids was probably the only one completely unafraid to hang out with the rotary mech off-duty. Get them a few glasses of engex in, and they went off onto conversational tangents about their basic philosophical differences. Skids made flow charts. Whirl illustrated relevant points with chairs. Mostly to other people's heads, but usually in good fun, and he never went after anybody who wasn't halfway toward starting a fight in the first place. It'd been a long war, and he wasn't the only one on board who looked at an amiable brawl as entertainment. He was just the only one willing to start the fragging things. Everyone else had these self-image concerns, what with not wanting to look like the bad guy. Whirl just didn't give a scrap.
It'd gotten to the point that Ratchet sent Ambulon after the two unofficial ship marshals any time they got smashed enough to start in on 'the meaning behind throwing a punch.' Ambulon might not look like a scrapper, but he transformed into something without interior spaces. He was solid metal and made to support a team of other mechs made of nothing but battle armor and weaponry. He was fully capable of throwing his considerable weight around when he had to. Plus, he had the personality of a lead brick. As in, he used it to repeatedly bludgeon those who invoked his ire.
Mech was built denser than a tank and mean enough to scold the tipsy duo into packing it in for the night. He just had to come in the door to the bar and scowl, and Whirl and Skids scampered back to their respective quarters to snooze off their overcharge peacefully. If they were beyond scampering by the time he arrived, he had no problem dragging their drunk afts through the halls, leaving paint transfers and whipped-cyberpuppy whimpering in his wake. He nagged them the whole way and sent Siren to greet their inevitable hangovers the next morning.
Sturdy. Yeah, that was the word. Ambulon was study. Also scary. Scary also worked.
Anyway, usually Whirl and Skids were a relatively fearless pair. However, they were tip-toeing into Swerve's wrecked bar like they were frightened of the furniture. Strangely enough, their combined bad-aftness was still not enough to face down the source of the mayhem that'd left tables and chairs overturned all over the place.
"We should call the blasted medic," Whirl muttered, peering over a chair. He wasn't hiding, no sir, not him. He was merely utilizing his surroundings for maximum defensive camouflage. Kup had taught him about that strategy. He'd never used it prior to this, but there was a first time for everything. "Leg mech to the rescue."
"We don't need backup," Skids said back as he put his back to a table and shot a quick glance over the top. "He's just one mech. A scrawny one, at that."
"The optic ridges give him emotional power beyond the ken. Magic wizardry of self-expression." Pincers waved. "Don't underestimate the psychotherapist. He'll look at you, and suddenly you're talking about feelings."
"So in other words, I'll be fine if I just hide behind you?" Skids blinked and took his attention off the other end of the room when silence met his joking question. "Whirl..?"
The rotary mech ducked his head and snarled his engine. "I have feelings!"
"Heh."
"Go suck Ultra Fragnus' tailpipe," Whirl spat resentfully. Forget duck-and-cover. He stood up straight and stormed the bar. "Let's get this over with."
The two mechs already sitting at the bar saw him coming, but only one looked alarmed at having an ex-Wrecker in a sulky mood stomping toward him. Rung just looked over his shoulder and smiled, optics placidly amused as Whirl pushed his way through the clutter. "Hello, Whirl."
*"I got him calmed down now, but please, please make him go away!"* Swerve whined through a tight comm. channel. The metallurgist's smile was supremely forced and more than a little desperate around the edges. He hurriedly resumed scanning the small non-combatant's hand, holding it between his palms as the equipment in his chest units and forearms swept over orange plating. He looked like the last place he wanted to be at that moment was standing near Rung, even with the bar between them. *"I told him I need quiet to analyze the alloys of his hand, but if you set him off again, I'm gonna make a run for it."* His plea sounded a bit pathetic, perhaps because he knew that Whirl was the last person onboard who'd heed it. *"Don't make him mad."*
*"Ratchet's standing by to remove the thing,"* Skids soothed, hurrying to catch up with the rotary mech like a physical manifestation of the diplomacy Whirl lacked.
Swerve looked up from his work to give them a sickly grin before looking down again. *"Yeah, but how're you going to get him from here to there? Can you just…knock him out?"*
Even Whirl stopped short at that. His optic blinked as he shook himself through reset, and he twisted his head aside to give Skids a glare that did a barely credible attempt at covering up a helpless look. Knock out Rung? The psychotherapist was literally the only non-combatant he had ever met, at least the only one who couldn't fight in any way whatsoever. He'd heard the tales. It was half the reason he'd agreed to attend sessions with the shrink. The Wreckers made fun of the gangly head-doctor, sure, but they had to respect a mech who refused a firearm yet opened his door to the most deranged, dangerous Autobots in the ranks. The only weapons Rung had were his words.
To be fair, that'd been enough to send an entire bar of combatants fleeing the room.
Swerve and Rung were sitting on either side of the bar like the untouched center of an explosion. Chairs and tables overturned in every direction away from where they sat. Swerve had been the one to place the emergency call asking for help, but that hadn't happened until Rung had started laying into the party-goers. He'd never seen anything like it, and he definitely never wanted to hear anything like it ever again.
Testing something meant to bring out the bad side of a mech on someone nobody found threatening might have been a good idea…well, never. In hindsight, yeah, it'd been a really lousy idea. Testing Brainstorm's stupid little micro-glitch on someone had seemed like a funny prank, but he should have asked the self-proclaimed genius for details. He hadn't, and look what'd happened.
He'd slipped the tiny mechanism into the one glass of engex Rung ever allowed himself, thinking he might get to listen to the slender Autobot actually complain for once. His other patrons consistently did. It was great entertainment, and Swerve had figured that Rung probably had either the most mundane or the most bizarre complaints hiding under his perpetual mild exterior. He honestly couldn't picture the mech haven't more of a 'bad side' than that, despite Brainstorm avidly watching - like that wasn't creepy or anything - from the stool beside the designated test subject.
Brainstorm didn't do subtle. Rung had been politely ignoring him after asking if there was something he could do for the mech. The psychotherapist had sipped his drink, and his optics had briefly crossed. Brainstorm had - rather rudely - invaded the psychotherapist's personal space he was so eager to observe Rung's reaction to the device, and even Swerve had stopped polishing the bartop to lean closer. The lithe orange 'bot had shaken his head as his optics reset, then smiled at the bartender with that sweet smile that normally had half the bar tripping over their own feet to sit by him.
He'd turned and laid into Brainstorm still wearing that pleasant smile.
Rung's bad side made Megatron look nice. Megatron had the physical threat down pat, but Megatron couldn't hold a torch to Rung in the mental arena. Megatron couldn't dissect your mind while you were still living in it, tell you the root cause of all your problems, and make you wither in your armor because of the caustic wit used while describing how intrinsically pitiful you were. Rung had cradled his drink in one hand, smiling, and said the very worst possible thing: the stark, unvarnished truth about things the Autobots gathered in the bar had long tried to bury.
Every mech had something tucked in their personal histories they didn't want to think about; denials, justifications, and complicated pains they preferred not to bring up. Most of them tried to convince themselves that they were at peace with their pasts, but that was a lie for the majority of them. The lie worked, however, so long as everyone played along.
But Rung had suddenly been in no mood to humor their collectively-fostered self-delusion. As Rewind had once noted, Rung turned up everywhere, watching everything. He was never an active participant, it seemed, but he'd seen the entire war firsthand or via the locked files. He knew truths the Autobots in the bar would have paid money or even killed to prevent being spoken aloud.
Swerve would have been furious with Brainstorm if he hadn't witnessed the amoral aft cowering on the barstool as the psychotherapist sat beside him and calmly eviscerated him with words. It was hard to be mad at a mech left shivering, sliced to the spark by bitter, achingly sharp words.
After he was done with the 'genius,' the psychotherapist had turned and started on the next Autobot he saw. His words had been pure brutality couched in a soft tone. Pipes hadn't stood a chance.
Shock had paralyzed the room through three victims. There'd just been something incredibly difficult to process about the thin, mild-mannered Autobot punching through them. It'd been like being successfully assaulted by a powder puff. There'd been a part of the watching mechs that just couldn't connect to ongoing events.
Brainstorm had had his face on the bar with his hands covering his audios. Pipe's had been staring into space, optics vague as Rung's words continued rattling around in his head and peeling his ego apart one painful truth at a time. By the time Rung had finished tearing a strip off of Sunstreaker, the vain frontliner's jaw had been nearly in his lap. He'd pushed himself as far back in his chair as he could, and his optics had been wide and dim. Bob had pushed against his legs, whimpering anxiously. The bug hadn't understood the electric reek of bewildered terror slowly filling the room; the nice mech with the clever hands and gentle voice had only been speaking in that low and soothing tone he took when he was coaxing Bob to sit by the couch while his owner laid down for a while. It was a good voice. Bob liked that voice. Sunstreaker normally came out of sessions with that voice thoughtful, and Bob would get many antenna skritches while the sunflower yellow frontliner sat and pondered what had been said. Not today, it seemed. Sunstreaker's vents had all been flipped open, but the fans had stalled out.
The psychotherapist had daintily taken a sip from his glass, poised and ready to verbally spear the next mech who so much as twitched.
*"Ever seen an entire room full of Autobots try to fit through one door all at once?"* Swerve asked sourly as he examined Rung's hand now. *"Fragging Cosmos got trampled in the stampede. Now knock him out before he starts talking aga - "*
"You skipped your last session, Whirl," Rung chided, slipping his hand free of Swerve's and standing in one elegant motion. He turned to face the two mechs who'd reluctantly come to escort him to the drunk tank, and those impressive optical ridges looked suddenly imposing as he gave a reproving frown to the ex-Wrecker shuffling his feet before him. "You wouldn't want your progress to slow, would you?"
"Er." Skids looked between the slight Autobot and Whirl. Whirl was a big, tough mech. Rung was built of thin struts and light plating that'd crumple in the mech's pincers no problem. "Uh. No?" If there'd been a betting pool, right now Skids' money would have been on Rung.
"It's been so gradual already that I fear you're sabotaging yourself." That adorable smile flashed, the visual equivalent of the rattletrap warning a sparkeater's tentacles gave, and Swerve ducked under the bar. "In fact, I know you are. Whirl, I believe we should have a talk about some of your underlying issues. Please," he gestured at a miraculously upright chair, "come sit and talk with me."
*"Don't do it!"* Skids and Swerve both urged over internal comm., but Rung's politeness only extended to saying the invitation. He actually didn't wait for his patient to accept before continuing.
The kind expression he wore was a lie. Rung was mean.
Two minutes in, and Skid picked his jaw up off the floor enough to throw Whirl over one shoulder and take off after Swerve, fleeing psychological warfare wielded by an expert in mouth-to-mind combat. Whirl was too stunned to react.
They met Ultra Magnus and his backup outside the bar. Skids plunked Whirl down, and the rotary mech took a few uncertain steps as if testing his own stability.
"Ah, Ultra Magnus. You never visit me in a professional capacity, despite referring my services to many." Whirl froze and slowly turned to look over his shoulder at the slender orange Autobot who'd followed them out. Rung leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and sweeping a contemplative look around the assembled mechs before focusing on the ship's executive officer. "I find that strange considering the hypocritical nature of the Accord you live and breathe by. I suspect at the core of you, there is nothing but mindless robotic subservience to it, and that is quite unfortunate considering the fundamentally flawed nature of the Accord. Did I ever tell you that I knew Tyrest?"
Whirl, Skids, and Swerve took off running as that whimsical, lopsided, horrible smile crossed Rung's face. Ultra Magnus' optics widened in alarm, but it was too late. The truth could break minds if told cruelly enough, and the psychotherapist was in a bit of a bad mood, one could say.
"Let me tell you exactly what kind of mech your beloved Tyrest really was."
Brainstorm had a lot to answer for.
[* * * * *]
Pharma - "broken toys and sharp edges
[* * * * *]
"You are being deceived," he said, falling, and his voice stayed unnaturally dispassionate.
He fell into the abyss, and only someone with a twisted cause would come looking for him. But only someone using a Cause to serve twisted desires would have made a toy of a brilliant surgeon.
More fool Tarn, to break the toy.
Pharma had endured Helex's rough hands and Tesarus mocking laughter, but it was Kaon and Vos who had truly tortured him. "No marks," Tarn had said, turning the Autobot over to them, and they had agreed.
Kaon and his electricity. Vos and his sadism. They had agreed, and although the Autobot's armor had smoked afterward with the copper tang of burnt circuitry, none of the damage had been visible. Not the first time, nor the second. Nor any time after that, and the times had been many. No, the D.J.D. had had their fun with him, and nobody had come to save him. Nothing had betrayed how they'd played with Tarn's toy, and they'd released him only on their own terms.
Pharma had limped back to the Delphi Clinic every time with a few more sharp edges where there'd once been rationality, a snapped light behind his optics where the fierce intelligence kindled defiance to burn the fear as fuel.
Perhaps if there had been more time, a less drastic confrontation, Ratchet might have caught on. He was the Autobot Chief Medical Officer, after all, and had volunteered in the rehab clinics before the war even began. He'd seen mechs who finally broke. He might have recognized that repeated, ruthless torture had been what'd twisted the talented surgeon he'd once known.
Maybe he would have held some sort of compassion for the mad surgeon Pharma had become. Maybe he would have seen that the insane hate had driven Pharma to set loose a plague, not a loss of values or morals.
Maybe not. It had been a long war.
Regardless of might-have-beens and maybes, what had happened had happened, and Pharma fell.
Broken toy, discarded. Only a whimsical owner prone to gloating would ever come looking for his rusting, infected body.
And, kneeling by him, Tarn would transform.
"You are being deceived," he'd say, and Pharma smiled as the pieces fell with him, coming together.
[* * * * *]