Optimus Prime puts on an erotic dance in a parking lot; Sunstreaker has magic hands; Ambulon takes Rung (and himself) by surprise; Blast Off's bad day infects the other Combaticons. There are dolphins involved.
[* * * * *]
Title: Candy From Strangers, Pt. 10
Warning: Inappropriate use of traffic cones, Bob cuddles, arousal from being objectified, and xeno implications
Rating: Pg-13?
Continuity: IDW & G1
Characters: Starscream, Megatron, Ratchet, Optimus Prime, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Bob, Ratchet, Ambulon, First Aid, Rung, Combaticons
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): A prompt from a chat, a request from Shibara, a picture from her as well, and a sequel that nobody asked for.
[* * * * *]
Optimus Prime - "making a traffic cone sexy"
[* * * * *]
This wasn't how prisoner exchanges were meant to happen.
The arrangements were pretty typical, for Earth. The deal was that one single Autobot could approach and release Soundwave, and then Ratchet could be retrieved. Because of Soundwave's small, vulnerable altmode - so crushable when in-hand - Megatron had tacked on an additional requirement: the chosen Autobot had to remain in altmode the entire time. They'd meet in a parking lot, and the Decepticons would keep their weaponry powered down, but the Autobot had to drive to meet them.
As far as precautions went, that wasn't all that unusual. Or rather, it wouldn't have been except that Starscream had done an inspection of the Victory's barracks before Megatron and an honor guard of three Decepticons had left for the prisoner exchange. Such officer duties never put the Air Commander in a good mood, but inspections on Earth were the bad kind of special duty. Booby-trapped berths were the least of an officer's problems during inspection. Granted, Starscream had gotten further than Scrapper had managed, but he'd still only gotten halfway through the barracks before giving up. That'd been enough to put him in a foul mood, because confiscating anything against regulations here on Earth was a never-ending exercise in frustration.
But he had gotten halfway. Hence the makeshift driving course challenge in the Cost Co. parking lot. It was made of orange traffic cones and yellow construction barricades confiscated from Skywarp's dubious intentions and illegal ownership. The fuming Air Commander had repurposed them, half to torment the Autobots and half to annoy the black Seeker. Starscream had been in a bit of a huff after storming out of the crew quarters. There were still aqua paint spatters on his thrusters.
Megatron had allowed Starscream his snitfit, in part because allowing his Second a harmless outlet meant Skywarp wouldn't have to report to the repairbay to get a traffic cone removed from somewhere it shouldn't be lodged. However, it was also because making Optimus Prime jump through hoops of diplomatic formalities could be entertaining, but making him carefully navigate an actual obstacle course was even more so. Megatron had watched in some amusement as his darkly-muttering Second had set up an entire maze, complete with obstacles to navigate around and a loading area just barely big enough to fit Prime's altmode trailer.
His amusement had quickly turned into something less definable. The other Decepticons' moods had made a similar shift. Skywarp's seething resentment, Thundercracker's boredom, and Starscream's high-pitched and very vocal smugness had all tapered off into silent staring.
Optimus' reaction had caught them unprepared. Ratchet had grudgingly transformed into his own altmode for the occasion - airlifting an ambulance in a sling was probably going to be a human competitive sport by the end of the year - and traded snarking commentary with Starscream during set-up. He'd predicted that the Autobot leader would pause, mildly rebuff Megatron for the unannounced addition to the prisoner exchange, and then simply plow through the complicated course in order to reach the designated loading area. Megatron had snorted a laugh and agreed with the medic.
They'd both been wrong.
Optimus hadn't said anything about the orderly mass of just-wide-enough traffic guidance paraphernalia. He'd rolled to a stop after making the left turn into the parking lot. He'd sat there idling as he took in the maze. The Decepticons had waited on the other end of the parking lot, relaxed but ready for the standard speech and counter-speech both Megatron and Prime tended to see as necessary. Megatron even had a few snide remarks culled from Starscream's post-inspection tirade to use tonight.
The speech hadn't come. Instead, the semi-truck had done an awkward three-point turn in the limited space of the driveway. When he was turned around, he began backing up.
Through the maze. Without disrupting the organized chaos in the slightest. Optimus Prime was backing that wide load up, and the Decepticons had no choice but to stand there, dumbfounded, and watch it slowly wag as the Autobot leader painstakingly navigated the maze in reverse.
Starscream blew air out his vents, exasperated but resigned, and pinged a change to the Stunticon's training schedule. Megatron absently approved it. Motormaster would throw a tantrum at being signed up for Drivers' Education courses, but the mech was going to buckle down and practice anyway. This wasn't trick driving. This wasn't a high speed chase. Those things, the Stunticions excelled at, but there was no way in the Pit that Motormaster could drive like this. Not all maneuvering could or should be done at high speeds and with as much property damage as physically possible, and the Prime was currently proving that point. As the commander of the Decepticons' direct-contact fighting unit against the mostly ground-bound Autobots, Motormaster needed to learn how to do this ASAP.
Although...perhaps he didn't need to take lessons from the Optimus Prime School of Drivers' Ed. He was somewhat young for that kind of instruction.
Megatron felt his optic frames twitch, lenses spinning out and back into focus on the wide rear end backing toward him. Prime caught on another orange traffic cone. That sleek, thick bumper went into a leisurely dance, as if the Autobot had the all the time in the world to tease himself off the plastic cone. He repeatedly moved forward and then back again, plump tires turning the tiniest amount, back and forth. The trailer end described little, taunting circles that gradually danced him around and off the traffic cone out. It turned it like a top under him, the tip snagged on his undercarriage, and the Prime's jigging caused it to rock on its base in a fast half circle, then a slow finish, only to sweep into another rushed circle that nearly, nearly tipped the cone over, but the achingly slow rotation brought it back to the asphalt safely.
When it finally popped free and clattered on the ground, the four watching Decepticons gasped in strained unison. Megatron hadn't even realized his ventilation system had fallen into sync with the Prime's delicate wriggling.
Starscream shook his head to snap out of the weird trance they were in. "Right." He reached down, picked up the ambulance snickering at their feet, and turned Ratchet around to set in the loading area. Now sitting on his wheels facing them, the medic didn't seem to know what to do. Starscream flicked a finger behind the Autobot. "Go meet him halfway, or we'll be here all night."
Emergency lights flashed incredulously. "You're kidding."
"No," Megatron rasped, still staring as the Prime snagged on yet another traffic cone. "Prime's too much of an honorable idiot to not unload Soundwave before leaving."
Ratchet grumbled his engine but obediently threw it into reverse. Apparently, Optimus' precise navigation of the maze was something of a challenge to the medic. He made it to the first tight turn before snagging on his own traffic cone. Softly cursing, he began rocking himself clear, doing his own little dance.
The Decepticons settled in for the show.
[* * * * *]
Rung - "too old for surprises"
[* * * * *]
Being called on by a civilian adjunct was new. Somewhat surprising, as well. It'd been a long time since any of the three medics aboard the Lost Light had thought in terms of peace, when requesting the cooperation of an entirely different division within the Autobots wasn't a huge complication and possible security threat. Instead, it was a professional courtesy between doctors, and a personal favor because it involved their off-duty hours. Rung entered the medibay with his little smile and utter confidence as he asked their assistance, and Ratchet, First Aid, and Ambulon didn't have the slightest idea of what to say.
Which didn't stop them from running their mouths, anyway.
"Well I - "
"This seems rather - abrupt, wouldn't you say? And surely - "
"Is this professional?"
" - not entirely comfortable with the idea of an unknown Autobot touching my - "
" - how would that be helpful? I mean, I'm not telling you how to do your job - "
" - really? Really? Because that's exactly what it sounded like to me. He's older than all of us put together, you realize - "
" - I know that, but this seems highly suspicious - "
" - have to agree. The idea of being allowed to handle someone without consequences - "
" - true, the lack of negative feedback would probably benefit several Autobots I could name offhand. Anything positive, and those mechs automatically assume it's nothing more than a shallow 'facing, but anything less is offensive - "
" - a trust issue? I'm still not sure that being put in the middle of that - "
" - might be the point, if you think about it. It's not about us, it's about the patient - "
"But why us? We're medics, for Primus' sake - "
"Oh, and who else would you trust to bring in on a psychotherapy session? Anyone else is like asking Cyclonus to buff someone after I've closed up on surgery - "
"We have taken oaths of patient confidentiality - "
"Those haven't been relevant since the war started - "
"The war's over."
The three arguing medics, startled, turned toward the short orange Autobot who'd been standing there, patiently waiting. His words echoed.
When he left, they seemed to get louder.
Ratchet mutter-grumbled his way back to his office in a blatant dodge. He was probably going to bury his helm in filework, but First Aid and Ambulon had appointments to prepare for. There was nowhere to escape the words.
The discussion happened in spurts and starts as they puttered around the medibay. It didn't really go anywhere, but the circles were interesting.
"Are we trying to talk ourselves out of it, or into it?" the former nurse asked after the fourth time they'd ended up where they'd started.
Ambulon frowned, opened his mouth, closed it, and frowned some more. "…I'm not sure."
Eventually, Ratchet barged out of the office to join their not-discussion. Filework hadn't been enough to blot out Rung's quiet request, it seemed. His addition to the circle of repeated excuses only made it more profane. Ambulon really had to admire the Chief Medical Officer's grasp on colorful language, sometimes.
"Right," the ward manager decided after Ratchet chased the last patient out in a hail of grouchiness. "I elect myself Prosecution. First Aid?"
His coworker seized on the familiar method in relief. They'd played this off against Pharma more than once when it came to debating patient treatment and supply purchasing priorities. "Defense. Ratchet, can you sit as Judge Advocate? You just have to listen and decide who has a better argument."
Their new boss eyed them warily but nodded.
To an outsider, the relationship between First Aid and Ambulon probably seemed like a caustic thing barely contained within professional boundaries. Ratchet certainly seemed alarmed when the two junior medics squared off against each other over a repair berth, First Aid bouncing on his heels and Ambulon scowling grimly. They looked like they were about to attack each other.
And yes, they did tear into each other on a regular basis over mundane stuff. Ambulon was a stickler for Medibay Standard Operating Procedures, Autobot Code rules and regulations, and organization in general; First Aid did his research but followed intuition in the end, and his whims occasional led to him slacking his duties. Ambulon didn't have much of a life outside of his job, and he made it a point of pride not to let his personal life interfere in any way with his professional one. First Aid wasn't that meticulous about his own separation. Their dissimilar approaches to work made contact outside of it fairly scarce.
It was also Ambulon's job as ward manager to make sure First Aid did his job, which made things sometimes tense inside the medibay. First Aid didn't necessarily like being marked up for the times he cut corners or disobeyed S.O.P. to follow a flash of inspiration. He definitely resented every tick mark on his record for the times Ambulon caught him indulging in that Wreckers' obsession while on duty. He understood why Ambulon did it, but he didn't have to like it, and Ambulon only cared that First Aid knew the reasoning behind every mark-up. Opinions were unimportant.
What had happened at the Delphi Clinic still hung between them awkwardly, especially since Ambulon had stiffly filed a formal protest against Ratchet's promotion of the former nurse. First Aid had been demoted due to "erratic behavior and obsessive/compulsive tendencies." That diagnosis still stood; therefore, so should the demotion according to M.S.O.P. Rung had quietly confirmed the original diagnosis and offered to start therapy, but First Aid had refused, claiming that being promoted by Ratchet negated the diagnosis. That wasn't, no matter what First Aid insisted, how diagnosed mental instabilities in medibay personnel were handled.
Ambulon, still doing his job, had filed personnel conflict complaints against Ratchet. He didn't know if it was favoritism or a symptom of the Lost Light's ubiquitous unprofessional behavior, but what else was he supposed to do? It was his job to manage the doctors in his ward, and this doctor was as unsuitable as when he'd initially been diagnosed and Ambulon had subsequently demoted him.
He'd get on his knees and beg to save a patient's life. He'd done so before, and he'd do it again without hesitation. It was the only weapon a Decepticon medic had to protect the injured and defenseless under his care. As an Autobot, he could act preemptively to save patients before it came to that. He could and did, even if it meant alienating himself from his coworkers and destroying any chance he'd ever have at a promotion. So he'd filed personnel complaints and compiled evidence and done everything he could to convince Ratchet that First Aid was an exemplary nurse but a potential danger to patients as a full medic, much less as the Chief Medical Officer in training. A promotional leap of that magnitude, especially under the circumstances, was absurd!
First Aid was mentally unstable. He could handle the responsibilities of a nurse, but handing him the authority and responsibilities of a doctor was a bad call. Ambulon was tentatively convinced that First Aid could resume the position of a full medic once acknowledgement and treatment of the instabilities happened. Psychological problems didn't mean a mech couldn't be a medic. Just look at Glit; the Decepticon medic was absolutely notorious as an engex-addicted drunkard, but he was the role model for the Decepticon Medic Corps. And a hefty chunk of the Autobot Medical Division, too. Mental instabilities just meant that steps had to be taken get them under control.
But those steps had to be taken. Ensure First Aid's problems didn't endanger patients, and Ambulon would huff and reluctantly withdraw his protests against Ratchet's promotion of the former nurse. Until then, and until Ratchet saw reason, he would file personnel complaints because it was part of his job. Nobody else had to like what he did. It was still his job.
Ultra Magnus had gravely considered the personnel complaints and assured Ambulon he would bring them up with Rodimus. Ambulon didn't have great hopes that anything would happen. Ultra Magnus took his job seriously; Rodimus, not so much.
So when Ambulon and First Aid squared off against each other, there was some real tension there. Ratchet's optics jumped between them apprehensively.
"It's not part of any of our job requirements," Ambulon said bluntly.
First Aid snorted lightly and countered, "If we were limited by job requirements, we'd be knocked over anytime the Decepticons came up with something new to throw at us. Our profession is one of flexibility, not strict adherence to outdated standards."
"Oh, please, you wouldn't known professional standards if they bit you in the aft!"
And they were off.
After the yelling started, Ratchet actually relaxed a little. He still seemed somewhat baffled by the ease the two junior medics traded insults and legitimate points, but this seemed to be the way discussions got done between them. Ambulon methodically wiped down and sterilized everything within reach. First Aid idly followed him around the medibay sitting on surfaces he'd just cleaned and building little towers out of the supplies he'd just put away. Ambulon then turned right around to resterilize and dissemble the towers in order to put them away again. It was a bizarre circle of irritation made all the more surreal by Ambulon barking acidic comments at First Aid and First Aid countering every statement made.
Ratchet pulled out a datapad and started taking notes as they bickered.
Two hours later, Ambulon was half inside a cabinet sorting chemicals. First Aid leaned against the door, holding the vials handed out to him every few minutes as the ward manager shuffled the sets around to clean underneath them. They were both still talking over and around each other, but most of their annoyance seemed to have burnt out.
"Aaaand," their boss drew out, "you've circled around to the beginning again."
Two heads turned, Ambulon's poking into sight around the cabinet door. "We have?"
"Yes. Anything else to add?"
First Aid cocked his helm at the ward manager, who shrugged after a moment of thought. "I can't think of anything that we haven't already covered. You?"
"No. Well?" First Aid gave Ratchet an expectant look. "What's the verdict?"
Good thing he'd kept a running tally, or he'd have been lost at the close of the first hour. The CMO tapped at the datapad screen with his stylus and nodded. "Cooperate."
"Huh."
"Alright."
Rung didn't even look surprised when Ambulon stopped by later that night to let him know the three medics would help. Ratchet had asked him to do it, because Ambulon and Rung were…friends. No matter what else First Aid's gossiping tried to make them out as.
The unfazed acceptance of their decision kindled an inkling of an idea within the ward manager's head, and the question popped out before he could stop it: "Did you do this on purpose?" Knowing that the medibay would devolve into an argument about what the responsibility of a medic was in times of peace, dealing with the nonphysical results of war. Knowing that the three of them wouldn't let the issue lie until they had picked the struts bare and come to a mutually satisfactory agreement.
That small smile. "All I did was ask for assistance and remind you that the war is over."
"Exactly." Narrow yellow optics studied the slender orange mech behind the desk.
Who just kept smiling. "I don't believe in manipulating people, Ambulon."
"No," he said slowly, "but you do believe in helping them."
Expressive brow ridges raised in a questioning look. "And did I help you in some way?"
Ambulon didn't know how to answer that.
At least helping Rung wasn't a hardship. "Kind of unnerving," First Aid admitted when he came back from his turn. The former nurse's plating gleamed, waxed to a luxurious shine that spoke of the hours he'd spent under someone else's hands. "Without my optics or my audios, it was just my proximity sensors, but - well, Rung asked me to give my word that I'd limit use of them." His plating ruffled, opening up to express his discomfort. "I did my best, but that's not a system that shuts down easily. I've got my thoughts on whom the patient is. I'm…I'm not sure I'd have been able to sit still through that if I'd had audio-visual."
Because that wasn't alarming or anything. Ambulon blinked across the medibay at him, and Ratchet shot the other ambulance a reproving look for discussing the session. Not that they weren't all deathly curious, but the war was over. Patient confidentiality could be allowed to make a comeback in the medibay, although it'd never departed Rung's office.
Ratchet merely flexed his hands and shrugged when he returned. "I went into recharge. What?" Neither of the junior medics had given him cause to be defensive, but older models and their tendency to snooze off whenever given the chance was a documented thing. Ambulon kept his expression mildly curious while First Aid took full advantage of the face mask to smile widely. What, like Ratchet couldn't tell that was a smile? Mech hadn't been sparked yesterday. "No reason for me to have stayed awake," their boss growled, flexing his hands again. His freshly cleaned, oiled, and exercised hands, they noticed. "All they needed was my hands, and since I had my optics off anyway, and it was quiet, why the frag not…"
The defensive mutter trailed after Ratchet as he stomped back into his office.
Ambulon shook his head and went back to organizing patient charts. He wasn't concerned about his own turn with the mystery patient. He trusted Rung too much to waste time on worry. The patient and First Aid's theories of whom it was? Let them alarm the former nurse. That didn't matter to Ambulon. What mattered to Ambulon was whether or not Rung believed this to be safe. Since Rung obviously did, then the patient's identity didn't matter.
There was a niggling concern about professionalism, but Ratchet and First Aid had both participated already. Waxing and maintenance seemed like odd things to let a patient do, but they'd collectively decided that it could be filed under 'physical therapy.' The point was to allow the patient to touch someone without backlash, to prove that the patient was trusted, and to allow Rung to use the distraction of physical activity to guide the patient through speaking on difficult issues that needed to be addressed. Shutting off audios and optics and limiting the use of proximity sensors was a reassurance to the patient, and involving medics instead of random crewmembers kept patient confidentiality secure if the audio/visual blackout wasn't enough.
However, in a return courtesy gesture, the patient had to sign a nondisclosure waiver, just as if he'd been involved in a sensitive medical procedure. It was more a gesture of Rung's consideration for others' comfort than a requirement, but Ambulon appreciated it nonetheless.
He appreciated it so much more when he started to heat up.
He hadn't expected it. From the sudden stillness over the open commline to Rung, neither had the psychotherapist. The hum of static from an open line silenced as Rung hesitated on the verge of saying something, and Ambulon hadn't a clue how he'd reply when the question came.
This session wasn't about him. It had nothing to do with the infrequent times that Rung laid him down on the couch in this very office to make him twist and cry out. Ambulon knew what that felt like, and it had nothing to do with their respective jobs. This was totally professional, in contrast. Right now, the paint being applied to his stripped plating was for the benefit of the patient Ambulon could neither see nor hear. Ambulon's role was to stay still and quiet, an object placed in the office for use, to be seen and used instead of interacted with. Ambulon was a thing. He was an object with a lousy paintjob but good medical credentials, and existing was the only duty he had to fulfill.
Rung had met him in the office, sat him down in this very chair, and described what would happen. The open commline was there in case Ambulon suffered any sort of discomfort or was suddenly pinged by the medibay for an emergency. Other than that, Rung had promised he would stay close but not touch him unless the patient asked for help during the painting session. The psychotherapist made sure that he knew there were safeties in place, but he'd also made it clear that this session was explicitly about the patient, not Ambulon. Given the building complications of their ongoing affair, the ward manager had understood why the emphasis had been placed on that explanation.
Ambulon was very well aware that he had a weakness for physical attention. The smooth slide of paint down his backstruts felt like concentration. The tiny separate tickles from individual bristles stroked his spark in vastly disproportionate measure to the actual pressure from the brush. The unknown patient was bending thought and effort upon him, and dear holy Primus did Ambulon enjoy that.
He'd been prepared for that. He'd made a point of telling Rung he was prepared for it.
What he hadn't been prepared for, and what had his fans clicking against sudden, panicked lockdown, was how it felt to be an object.
Everything between he and Rung was highly personalized. Every time the slender orange Autobot took a paintbrush to him, it'd been wholly centered on Ambulon and his responses to the stimulus. Rung drowned the ward manager in close observation until he knew where and when and how to make Ambulon writhe in helpless pleasure.
This wasn't about him. This was about the conversation going on above his lowered head, and the busywork occupying the patient's hands. He was a thing between the two mechs in this session, and Ambulon's body was racing toward something headier than arousal but suspiciously more than lust. What he felt was more that purely physical, because his mind had been completely dismissed from this office, and melt him down for ammunition casing was it hot!
After being regarded as a filthy traitorous Decepticon because of his body for so long, heating up from someone using his body alone took him completely off-guard. It took Rung off-guard. Guard? What guard? Ambulon's spark was swelling so rapidly with an influx of energy that it'd have plowed over any anything in its path. Mere prior expectations could not stand in its way.
Ambulon was almost panting heated blasts of air out his mouth, desperately trying to keep it stealthy, but that façade wasn't going to last more than a minute at this rate. Electricity crackled over his relays, and the tickling pulses from half-triggered circuit breakers were driving him crazy. There was a localized overload just begging to go off as the brush left his plating and returned, dripping cool paint where the patient had apparently gathered too much liquid this time.
He whined thinly over the open commline, and that shook Rung from his shock.
*"Do you need to stop?"* Of course the psychotherapist was concerned for his well-being. He had respectfully kept their non-relationship behind closed doors because of Ambulon's dignity.
Dignity could hop into a trash compactor; Ambulon was concerned for that overload. It was hovering right on the edge of tipping over as the brush slopped about vigorously to spread the paint up his back before it dried. *"I-I apologize!"* he blurted. It felt like his internal systems were bunched together in his gut, turning around and over themselves until they were a tight knot that would snap at any moment, and oh. Oh, please.
The brush left his back. Ambulon bit his lip and firmly kept his vocalizer offline. That didn't stop him from whimpering over the commline, however.
*"It's not your fault, Ambulon,"* Rung said, refusing to let him take blame. *"I should have known better than to attempt this, knowing how you respond to - "*
*"No!"* And wasn't that a hasty yelp. Ambulon swallowed and wrestled his face into a neutral expression instead of pained one he'd been wearing. His voice still wavered a bit. *"Is - is it obvious..?"*
Rung was silent for long moment. Ambulon fretted. His spark continued to pulse thickly in his chest, gorged on energy and singing through his sensor network like a live wire connected to the ship generator.
When the psychotherapist spoke again, he sounded oddly off-balance, as if not sure how he should be reacting to the situation. *"If you are asking about how obviously your arousal is,"* ah yes, Rung and his direct statements, *"the patient is aware. It seems he was aware before I was. However, he did not call attention to it until I asked him to stop. He's under the assumption that the halt is for his sake, and is attempting to convince me that he doesn't mind if you're…enjoying this."* There was a pause. *"I believe he is genuinely fascinated by the discovery that tactile interfacing does not need to involve more than the smallest touch of an mundane item."*
…uh. The psychotherapist's habitually straightforward speech had a strangely tactful air, this time. Ambulon suppressed embarrassment and curiosity in equal measure. He had to repress his proximity sensors just as hard. Just who was this patient, and - and was he interested by Ambulon's reaction, or just laughing about it?
And did Ambulon really care, at this point? He wanted to overload so bad it nearly hurt. Needy sounds were piling up on his deactivated vocalizer.
*"Do you think it will help his progress?"* Ambulon asked, trying to mask his lack of willpower in a cloak of medical necessity. Perfect, he could succumb to the urge to let them do whatever they wanted to him, as long as it was in the name of helping a patient. It was a plan! Now make it happen.
*"His progress has no bearing on your - oh my."*
Rung's remark seemed startled. Perhaps it was a sign of trust to let him hear that broken off exclaimation, or maybe the psychotherapist was just that rattled, but Ambulon seized on the distraction to keep from focusing on the way his spark was giving little pre-overload spasms. *"What? What happened?"*
There was another hesitation. *"Ambulon…I do not want to put any pressure on you. Please tell me if you are uncomfortable with any of this."* Ambulon started to give a strained, dismissive laugh, but Rung interrupted him. *"No. Please stop and think. I will not use a person like a disposable tool. This borders on indecency already, and I have never - I'm sorry. This is a new technique for me, and while the theory is sound, I have never ventured in attempting to apply it. I don't generally approve of applying theories without test cases backing them up.*" That put him far ahead of First Aid already, in Ambulon's book. *"I do not want you to regret anything that happens here. My patient's progress is not made at your expense. Please stop and think about your own priorities."*
It was hard when his spark was pressing on his mind in a pleasure-addled haze of spitzing energy. He gave it a try, despite that.
What he settled on wasn't the idea that letting someone see him overload was undignified, or that Rung didn't want him to feel used. He'd suffered worse indignities in the Decepticons for the sake of a patient, and quite honestly, what was happening here was spinning his spark in a way he couldn't regret. Passing up on the chance to be used would be what he regretted.
So he asked, *"If it were Ratchet here instead of me, would you trust him to make the right decision?"*
Rung's voice was thoughtful. *"It would depend on his state of mind, and I would question whether his decision was based on placing the needs of the patient before his own comfort levels."*
*"Would you question whether he has the right to make that decision for himself?"*
*"May I touch you, Ambulon?"* The question came out of nowhere, but the ward manager nodded immediately. He hadn't realized how he'd be craving the hand on his crest until Rung's fingers gently traced along it. It was an impersonal gesture that could be taken as a reassurance or something tender, depending on how the watching patient chose to see it. Ambulon appreciated the care taken in picking that touch instead of something more intimate. *"Thank you. I understand where you are going with this, but Ratchet and I have a professional relationship without the complications you and I have created outside of duty. There is nothing between Ratchet and I to place any sort of undue pressure to agree or disagree in this situation. You must see that what you and I have could create a conflict of interest. And,"* Rung continued delicately, *"it is more than a bit unusual that you would choose to allow this continue. Your avoidance of any hint of unprofessional behavior outside of closed doors has led me to assume that you value privacy and adhere to a strict division of personal and professional lives."*
Yes, alright, he could see why that might lead the psychotherapist to wonder if he felt pushed into this. And the simmering energy inside Ambulon was pushing him, make no mistake.
But…still. *"Do you think it will help your patient's progress?"* Ambulon repeated.
The fingers running across the top of his crest paused. *"Whether or not it continues, this has already caused a breakthrough. He's never spoken so frankly to me on our current topic."* There wasn't even a hint about what that topic was, but Ambulon had a couple guesses, none of them anything less than tank-churning considering the history of violence most Autobots had at this point. *"I - perhaps I should not tell you this,"* Rung said reluctantly, *"but yes, I do believe it will help my patient's progress. It might be best if I arranged something with Ratchet, however, as I think the subject of a tactile overload is not as important as the fact that the process is wanted and deeply enjoyed after a steady, gentle build-up."*
Putting it like that only made the electricity try to ground through Rung's fingers, and they jittered as if shocked by the surge. The description alone sent a hot flush of pleasure spiraling straight down Ambulon's center, tugging his systems in to tremble and want. To be unimportant, just an object for discussion that facilitated a process…
He insistently nudged his helm into the hand on his crest. Fingers slid down to rest on his cheek, and Rung's apprehension, his worry for Ambulon's well-being, bloomed from the point of contact. The ward manager pushed his arousal and gratitude into his own EM field, opening it up to be felt.
*"Rung."*
The ancient Autobot always cared for others, but he was always surprised when they responded by caring for him back. The fingers stroked down Ambulon's face, and Rung's voice was neutral. Never asking more than he was willing to give; never demanding. *"Yes?"*
It was new. Somewhat surprising, as well. *"I want to do this. I want to help the patient. And I think I'm going to enjoy helping you,"* Ambulon said confidently.
Frag if he was going to let the experience pass him by.
[* * * * *]
Shibara's Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, and Bob picture
Picture can be seen at shibara . tumblr post / 53350048789 / picture-commissioned-by-ladydragon76-a-while-ago
[* * * * *]
There was a method to petting Bob that nobody else had managed to pick up yet. Oh, anyone could reach down and pat him. That was nice, and the little guy enjoyed it. He nudged and nuzzled, bounced and begged, and crawled into laps and twined around legs for that. But when Sunstreaker did it, the cheeping could be heard halfway across the ship. That was something special, and nobody else could make Bob do it.
Sideswipe had watched closely. He could get the purr. Most mechs could get the purr, if they gave more than five seconds' attention to the bug. Run the knuckles of a hand hard across Bob's head and tweak his antenna, and listen to that purr. It was adorable. The way he'd hunch down and push into the petting could melt even Ironhide's rusted sparkcasing. The chittering purr and the accompanying enthusiastic aft-wag happened every time, and if a mech did it long enough, then out came the ultimate weapon of cute: rolling over to expose his segmented belly in a bid for tummy pets. That move had gotten Ratchet on camera surrendering to it.
But it wasn't the cheeping.
"Okay, I give. How d'you do it?" Sideswipe hoisted Bob up like a sack of wriggling parts. Bob commenced frantically kicking, trying to gain a foothold on thin air. "Just show me."
Sunstreaker was not smiling. Look at him not smile. However, someone who knew him well might map the incremental upward tilt of the angle of his mouth, and that indicated a good mood.
The golden frontliner reached out to capture one flailing front paw before his pet Insecticon wiggled free. "It's easy, you ignorant lout." His other hand reached for the most obviously dangerous bit of his pet. The part everyone instinctively avoided, because sharp pointy objects and shins were not friends, and involving hands seemed like a very bad idea.
Seemed like, but apparently wasn't. "Aw, come on. Seriously?" Sideswipe had to laugh as Sunstreaker rubbed gently at the base of one of Bob's spikes. Two great big yellow optics squinched up in pleasure, and the clumsy front paws were suddenly curling in small kneading motions while Bob's bitsy hand-claws opened and closed in absolute ecstasy.
"Seriously," Sunstreaker said in a solemn tone as the cheeping began.
[* * * * *]
Island of the Blue Dolphins
[* * * * *]
The rescue hadn't gone as planned. In fact, it'd been the opposite of Onslaught's plan. Instead of landing on the island and supplying Blast Off with the fuel they'd assumed he'd lacked in order to complete self-repair and lift off, the other Combaticons had been forced to hold down the shuttle and forcefeed him the cubes of energon. He'd been clearly delirious at the time.
Or so Onslaught had thought at the time. Now he realized that Blast Off's incoherent raving and jerky motions had been an attempt to fight the slave coding enough to warn them away before - well, this. Before the coding detected the proximity-opened gestalt-links and downloaded its activation into the rest of the unit.
Beside him, Swindle sighed and wobbled his tires to sink a little deeper in the sand. On the Jeep's other side, Vortex was lying on his front, face buried in his arms. Onslaught wasn't sure if the 'copter had sprawled out like that because it was comfortable, or because it was just more convenient. Every half an hour or so, a distinctive shudder shivered Vortex's rotor blades, and the arms hiding the mech's face tightened. Muffled sounds came from under their shelter. Onslaught could guess what they were, since the rest of the team had already recited more than their fair share to their absent…Master.
Beyond Vortex's miserably groveling form, Brawl sulked, legs pulled up to his prominent chest. The tank had already demolished everything on this tiny island worth destroying: shrubs, skittering lizards, even the lone hill that made this island more than an exposed sandbar in the middle of a shallow sea. Black, tarry smoke rose in a column to smudge the sky. Onslaught would have stopped him out of concern for attracting human attention and then - inevitably - Autobots, but he hadn't been able to manage more than numb disbelief while Brawl's temper ran its course. Now the island was a wreck, and the tank had exhausted his rage enough to join them in sitting down for a while.
At the end of the row of Combaticons sitting on the beach, Blast Off shifted uncomfortably. There were loud clicks and clanks coming from his direction. Brawl kept twitching and looking at him funny.
Onslaught checked his HUD read-out, pulling up the gestalt-links to check the shuttle's status. The full tank they'd forced on him had declined sharply in the last hours. "Has self-repair completed major repairs?"
His question didn't even get a glance down the row at him. "Yes," was grunted vaguely in his direction.
"Your fuel levels are dropping, still."
"…the coding is changing my body to fit new criteria," Blast Off bit out after a long pause, sounding like he hated his life, the universe, and everything.
Onslaught couldn't really blame him.
Vortex lifted his head out of his arms to stare in horror. "It can do that?" He twisted in the sand to stare in unconscious appeal at Onslaught. "It can't do that! I don't want to change to fit that squishy's - erk!"
Onslaught winced as the 'copter flinched. The slave coding have evidently caught on to Vortex's less-than-submissive train of thought, because it immediately started punishing him. Vortex curled up on the sand and began making those whimpery, apologetic noises again.
The others were too concerned with their own read-outs to spare sympathy for him. Onslaught looked at his own dropping fuel levels and accessed his self-repair, dreading what it would tell him it was doing. The list was long but added up to a few short physical changes once he sorted them out. Coloration changes, seal manufacturing to make him more waterproof - a floatation device?! What?! Okay, no. That wasn't as bad as he'd feared, to be honest. If he had to be immersed in ocean water in order to serve his new owner, being more waterproof and being able to float probably made sense. He wasn't sure why his coloration had to change, but he didn't care about that.
"My life as a dolphin's bitch: the true story," Swindle said bitterly, transforming to plop down in the sand with his legs akimbo.
Onslaught glanced down at the shorter Decepticon. He had to look the word up. "Bitch would imply that you're a canine."
"Colloquial slang. The implication is that I'm the unofficial housewife of the - of our Master." One thing in Swindle's favor was how quickly he could adapt to any situation. He barely slipped up before correcting himself, and the coding let it slide.
"What's a housewife?" Brawl asked from further down the line.
Vortex lifted his head and blew sand out his helm vents. "Female human, usually found in a servile role in a relationship."
"Swindle ain't a human," the tank said suspiciously, as if the conmech were trying to trick him again.
"He's not female, either." Vortex eased his hands open where they'd closed into pain-seized claws. Acting like nothing had happened, he rolled up onto his side to sweep the smallest Combaticon from helm to tires with a profoundly lewd look. It had a tired edge, like Vortex was doing his best to appear normal but not entirely succeeding. "He's referring to the fact that we're gonna fall all over ourselves to serve our new Lord and Master as soon as," he faltered, and they all winced as the slave coding lashed them for being such failures their Master had abandoned them here on this island, "he returns. When he comes back."
Brawl held his head in both hands. His motor whined painfully. "He is coming back, yeah? Yeah?!"
They all knew the answer. Blast Off had bleakly filled them in on the normal schedule of the dolphin pod, speaking the whole time in a dead-voiced monotone. Yet none of them couldn't stop themselves from shooting the shuttle anxious looks of inquiry. As much as they hated the newly activated coding - and they really, truly did hate it - being separated from their owner hurt. The coding kept making them punish themselves, and then they got angry at their new Master, and then the anger earned more punishment until they convinced the coding that no, no, they were good slaves who were obedient and loyal and would never think thoughts of hatred and violence against their owner and Lord.
Blast Off gave a bare nod. Relief and resentment flooded them all in equal amounts.
"None of us are a bitch," Onslaught said to cut off Vortex needling Swindle some more. He'd had time to look up the word and cross-reference it with popular media. "The other connotation is explicitly sexual, if not gender-specific. Dolphins are not compatible with our species in that way."
"Wait, so if we're not his bitches, what are we?" Trust Brawl to ask that.
"We're his slaves," Vortex said, speaking insultingly slow. "Obviously."
"No! I mean, yeah, but," Brawl waved a hand, trying to illustrate his point, "even slaves got different jobs. If we aren't bitches - "
"Stop using that word," Blast Off ordered, strangely sharp. The odd clicking from his self-repair system's work had only gotten louder. Even from here, Onslaught's passive scanners could pick up the excess heat output sheeting off him. What kind of changes was the slave coding forcing on the shuttle?
"Uhhh…" The tank thought for a second. "…housewives. If we aren't housewives, what are we?"
That was actually an interesting question. Swindle sat up straight as Onslaught turned to look down the line. Vortex pushed up out of the sand to sit back on his heels. Silence blanketed the beach for a few minutes as the enslaved Combaticons delved into the active code looking for what role they'd been slotted into. A lone slave might be a jack of all trades for duties, but they were an integrated unit. The coding had certainly recognized that when it'd forced Blast Off to transmit the activation sequence to the rest of them. The likelihood of being designated as a 'type' of slave was fairly high because of their prior connection as a unit.
"I think I'm a bodyguard?" Brawl ventured.
That resonated with Onslaught. "So am I."
"What the frag?" Vortex muttered. "Transport? That doesn't make any sense. Or - no, wait." He squirmed, looking queasy. "That explains why self-repair's modding my interior seals to keep water in instead of out. Oh, yuck. It's going to be inside me?" Panic flashed across his visor. "He! Our Master! Who has every right to be wherever he wants! I didn't mean - " With a low groan, the 'copter fell prostrate in the sand again. His rotor blades shivered violently as the slave coding proceeded to punish disloyal thoughts.
Onslaught looked away, uncomfortable. The way the slave coding worked, they were sabotaging themselves. "Swindle?"
"I'm not sure." The Jeep shrugged. "Butler? Accountant? Estate manager?" Hands flexing helplessly in the sand, the conmech stared out to sea. "This is…I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I mean, I'm in the process of signing over every single one of my fragging accounts to - to someone the humans don't even recognize as sentient. The official documentation is piling up, and I have no idea how it - um, our Master is going to sign off on them. The coding's pressuring me to hand over ownership of my assets immediately, but how does that work on a planet where he can't hold citizenship or full personhood anywhere? I have purchases lining up, ready for approval, but I don't know if he wants them or how to ask. Can we even interpret anything from dolphin into a language we understand?"
"Not often," Blast Off put in roughly. "I hope you were fueled up before you arrived, because if you haven't discovered it yet, we can only fuel with permission."
Onslaught twitched. And wasn't that horrible news, considering the rate their self-repair modifications were burning through their fuel levels.
"What kind of purchases?" he asked. There wasn't any point in dwelling on what he couldn't change, after all.
Swindle made a depressed little noise like a deflating tire. Money was slipping through his fingers. "Toys to amuse him. Shipments of fish. The deed to this island and surrounding reef."
"You can afford to buy an island?"
The conmech smiled weakly as his commander glared at him. "Might have forgotten to tell you I have a Swiss account or four on the side."
"Yes, you did!"
"So what're you?" Brawl poked Blast Off in the side. The shuttle's engine roared angrily for a second, but Brawl was more concerned with staring at his own hand. "Wow, you're really overheating. You okay?"
That caught Onslaught's attention. Still glaring at Swindle, he barked, "Blast Off! Sitrep ping, now."
It took a minute. Fortunately, although the slave coding now registered Blast Off as 'first and favorite' in their new internal hierarchy, the gestalt-link still had priority when it came to status updates. Blast Off glared at the sand but eventually pinged a full system report to his commander.
Who promptly attempted to swallow his own vocalizer. "What in Primus' name - "
"I'm the bitch," the shuttle said coldly before the other three Combaticons could annoy him with their curiosity.
It cut through their own personal Pits to make the whole unit reset their visors and wonder if they'd heard that right. Onslaught was still sputtering.
"…what?" one of them asked.
Blast Off huffed air out every vent and repeated it louder, because it wasn't true humiliation unless they were all aware of it. "I'm the bitch. I'm our Master's new pleasure slave."
The sound Swindle made was what Onslaught imagined a drowning Teletraan drone model would make. "Wh-what?"
A broad ping went out to them all. Even Vortex choked on air when the shuttle's new schematics popped up on his HUD.
"That's not possible," someone insisted, sounding sick. Onslaught was too sunk in horror to respond, yet.
"It's possible," Blast Off spat. "Our Lord and Master is a mammal, and mammals in general are all about reproductive imperative. So my body is reformatting itself to - to cater to his needs." He - she finally looked as ill as the rest of them felt. "The…the aperture along my back in altmode is...you can guess, I'm sure. And the structure inside my cargo bay is a - I believe it's supposed to be a," the shuttle hunched over, "a womb. Of some kind."
"I'm going to purge," Vortex said matter-of-factly. "You're turning into a freak."
Blast Off just huddled there in the sand looking hopeless. "My main duty as a slave is now mating and gestation. I can't really do that without becoming…compatible."
Onslaught had no idea what to say. He knew he should say something, but what exactly did a mech say to someone being forced to take on the anatomy of an organic species in order to serve as - what, a pseudo-mate and carrier of young? Was that even physically possible? Would Blast Off start generating the organic genetic material necessary to create dolphin young? Oh. That was…ugh. No. Horrible.
Brawl suddenly stood up and walked around to sit on Onslaught's other side. Blast Off blinked and watched him go, confused. A second later he got it, and Onslaught smacked Brawl upside the head as the shuttle's visor narrowed in a spiteful, hateful expression. Provoking the shuttle was a bad idea!
"You know," Blast Off said, thoughtfully and sadistic, "dolphins aren't monogamous. The more mating possible, the happier our Master will be."
The Combaticons stared at each other. There was a nearly audible clunk as the slave coding processed that bit of information.
Brawl whimpered.
Onslaught sighed air and turned to glumly look out over the water again. His read-out helpfully updated to reflect the changes self-repair had planned. "…well played, you fragger. Well played."
Beside him, Brawl began making pathetic little sounds. Swindle had his head in his hands, making a similar set of sounds.
Vortex tilted his head to the side and asked, "Wait, does this make us a harem?"
[* * * * *]