Title: Candy From Strangers, Pt. 16
Warning: Petplay, sexual military rank, and potential orgy.
Rating: R?
Continuity: IDW & G1
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): Prompts from Tumblr.
Someone sent in a frag buddy application. You are Blurr, Kup, and Chromedome responding to it.
[* * * * *]
Name: Blurr (IDW)
Availability: Available except when slagging 'Cons with my Wrecker buddies.
Soft or Rough? : Both
Dirty talk? : Yes [x] No []
Dominant or Submissive? (Or both.) : Submissive.
Some (Or all) of my turn on's : Exhibitionism, being bound, previously kept as a pet, so collars are fine, so are cages or 'beatings' if (read: when) I misbehave.
Other thing's you should know : I have light plating, so adjust your strength accordingly.
[* * * * *]
It was a miserable failure on your part. The single's advertisement seemed like a brilliant idea at the time, but the problem with writing an ad in the heat of the moment is that you can't alter it when circumstances change. Namely, the fact that Autobots and Decepticons are trying to get along, now. Obsolete information doesn't vanish just because it's old. Putting out a new ad will only encourage people to do a little research, and that'll pop the old ad up. You're a little desperate, and you know it, but you're not stupid.
That ad's been circulating for months, and you're getting used to the way your fan slats flutter when someone walks into the restored bar, looks at you, and…orders a drink. Hope died a while back. You just wish it'd stop the death throes. You keep waiting for someone to walk in, give you a look, and just go for it.
Surely somebody in the city likes your type? It can't be just because of…well, it could be. You've got a bit of an attitude problem, yes fine okay, but it bothers you that you can't get anything beyond a one-night stand. Even those are few on the ground, lately. There aren't many Autobots who'll put a hand on you anymore. Getting around to what you really want in the berth drives the couple of repeat flings you've got out the door before you can explain beyond the word 'pet.' A single's ad seemed like a genius way to just lay it right out how you want to be treated.
Problem is that you were riding high on attitude at the time you wrote the ad, and that line about slagging 'Cons isn't exactly politically correct. Neutrals are avoiding you. Decepticons are avoiding you. Autobots are looking at you funny. Anybody who things the idea of toying with you is hot? Referring to the Wreckers and killing the mechs you share a bar with now kind of destroyed your chances there.
If you could take it back, you would. But you can't.
You have a collar, up in your apartment. It's slender and glitzy, lined by the slimmest of designs in scrolling neon lights. The ring in the front is perfectly sized for four hanks of decent rope, or a couple of fingers from someone your size. Just one, if the mech's bigger than you are. That'd be nice. You like the idea of being pulled into someone's lap, wrists caught in one hand while the other snags your collar to drag you in for a kiss. Something light at first, letting you know you have to ask for more.
You know yourself: you'll try to get around that. You'll nip and nibble, giving your biggest pleading optics and best pouting look. It's all part of the play, being a naughty pet without quite disobeying. Punishments are almost as fun as rewards. But when you finally lose your pride and beg, Primus. Being bent back, a large hand in the small of your back to force you into an arch while your hip joints complain about straddling thick knees, a mouth heavy on yours and a tongue pinning yours to the roof of your mouth…
The collar's upstairs because you're down to self-servicing in order to burn charge, at this point. You can't count the number of times you've buckled it on yourself and knelt on the floor, bent back, and grabbed your ankles. It'd be better with the cuffs and the smooth cables you've got in place of rope, but fantasy can't untie you afterward, so you make do. It's still good. You can squirm and struggle, optics off, and imagine you're being watched. After hours, your owner would expect you to hurry upstairs and prepare yourself for him, maybe while he goes about his own business and only idly keeps an optic on you. You'd belong to him until the bar opens the next day, and your mind fills in all the fantasies that time could hold.
Jazz walked in on you once, collared and leashed to a table in the bar while you pretended. You were cleaning before opening, tethered as if your owner had left you there under orders to make everything within reach sparkle. Jazz walked in, and you nearly choked yourself before the leash snapped and you darted up the stairs to hide.
That had been an awkward conversation.
Would have been worth it if Jazz wanted to play, but he doesn't. He doesn't swing that way. If he did, it'd just be a matter of convincing him that you don't mind whose face he sees when he looks at you. You've had stranger employer/employee relationships in the past, and the benefits of a steady frag buddy outweigh the idea of an actual relationship. He has the hands of a musician, and you daydream sometimes about how he could play you anytime.
Then everything goes to the Pit with Megatron's return, and your bar is a wreck. What the riots didn't do, Arcee did. It's up to you to clean it up, of course. You pick unbroken bottles out of the trash and grumpily wonder where your clientele wanders off to when the real work begins.
You're so set in your grousing that there's a set of hands delicately shaking the glass and windowframe from a familiar circlet of neon and metal before you realize Swindle's standing in the street evaluating your collar.
He does evaluate it, holding it to the spotty light like he's looking to buy. "Copper…platinum lining. Is this crystal?" One finger taps the neon design. "Quartz or standard glass cover, neon gas interior, minimum power requirements." The design gets extra consideration from the artistic perspective, but Swindle sniffs a dismissal. You're oddly offended by that. He does seem pleased when he discovers the light colors are controlled by body temperature. "Easy evaluation of arousal and mood! Nice addition."
After giving a thorough going-over, he regretfully holds it out to you. "If I had the credits on me, I'd make an offer. I know someone who'd enjoy wearing it. Will it be available for purchase later?"
You take it on automatic, because your mind stumbles over that phrasing. That isn't the phrasing of a collector of oddities; that's the phrasing of someone who knows how it's used. "It's available," you say, and your voice comes out embarrassingly husky. It's suddenly occurred to you that Swindle hasn't had access to that horrible mistake of yours, and he knows that you acted to save Decepticons and Autobots alike. And he knows something about the lifestyle, or knows somebody at least, and that's more than you've got right now!
He's a connection. Terrible advertisement aside, this is what you were looking for.
Surprised by your tone, he looks straight at you. Your optics drop from that look - it's the same evaluating look he gave your collar, and you can see him matching collar size to your neck - and catch on his hands. The sensitive hands of a mech who speaks with them more often than not. They're small but strong, dexterous enough to to open up a weapon or forge a signature.
You kind of hope he's more than a connection. Maybe he's…into the lifestyle himself?
That's a thought you never thought you'd have about a Decepticon. Former Decepticon. Whatever he is.
"I'm not in the market personally," he says, neutral and careful, "but I'm always on the look-out for collars to train. Got a bit of a business supplying leash accessories to interested parties in the market for high-class berth decorations." Your vocalizer sticks. That's the most diplomatic way you've ever heard a trainer say he supplies masters with pets. He flashes that conmech smile to dazzle you, and you are suitably dazzled. "What, did you think the other Combaticons were picked at random? Gestalt technology relies on the mechs involved knowing how to deal out control and submission to each other."
He reached out and brushes fingers over the collar clutched in your hands. "I know how to play to power dynamics. So. Let me know when you're interested in selling?"
Now that is an innuendo-loaded question.
You nod dumbly at his back.
[* * * * *]
Name: Grimlock
Availability: Not busy. Him Prime's orders stupid, and me Grimlock's not doing them.
Soft or Rough? : Grimlock is Dinobot! Rough!
Dirty talk? : Yes [x] No []
Dominant or Submissive? (Or both.) : Grimlock King!
Some (Or all) of my turn on's : Me Grimlock likes a mech that moves a lot and makes lots of noise.
[* * * * *]
Oh dear. And this is what they hand you when you get off the ship from Cybertron. Millions of years of wrangling troops, fighting off planet and playing the diplomacy game on planet, and this is what your reputation gets you. Welcome to Earth, have a handful of regular applications and this.
It's nice to know they think you can handle anything, you suppose.
"…right." You've seen worse. Not that you can say that about attitude so far, but the accompanying picture is attractive enough. The application reads oddly, but it could be a language impediment like Warpath's. The mech seems rough around the edges, sure, and he certainly is a big 'bot, but there are some who like big 'bots and cannot lie. You just have to figure out where the mech's mind fits in the scale of 0 to I'd Frag That.
You give this Grimlock's creation date a second look and nearly fritz. "Does he even know what half these questions refer to?" you half-yell at Ultra Magnus.
The city commander has the frazzled look of someone who's had to deal with Grimlock before. "We've been unable to determine that."
Which is not an acceptable excuse in your books. Someone had to give Grimlock the application. Was a little follow-up so much to ask for?! "So he, what, filled this out in a void? Did anyone help him?" Yes, you're yelling. Primus, no wonder they handed you this when you stepped onto Earth. This pushes all your buttons and then some.
"We tried to evaluate the Dinobots' interfacing education level," he tells you. What a stuffy mech. He's probably stressed to the Pit and back, with the job he's got. You absently clear a place in your schedule for some education of his own, because Optimus Prime sent you to Earth to spread your experience around to all the troops. "Ratchet insists he explained interface systems, but Wheeljack similarly insists that the behavioral guidelines are coded to activate upon practice, not theory. A poll of the prior Earth crew indicated a lack of partners. We haven't been able to get a clear answer about experimentation within the unit itself."
"Do they act like they're 'facing each other's tails off?" Not everybody has your keen optic for this sort of behavior, but this Grimlock mech doesn't seem like the subtle sort. You doubt it'd be that hard to tell if the Dinobots are sexually active.
His expression closes in on itself. You add an extra hour onto the Ultra Magnus Personalized Education Class. This mech needs to unwind before something blows.
"The Dinobots, as a group," he says stiffly, "are difficult to understand."
"I'll bet," you mutter, drumming your fingers on your thigh. "Reminds me of the time I bent the Midgreer ambassador over an oil barrel - "
"Ah." Great, now he looks uncomfortable. What'd you say? "Pardon the interruption, but this is as good an introduction as any. About your official post here in Autobot City…"
"What?" You give him a suspicious look. You're the Duty Officer. You've always been the Duty Officer. Everybody goes to the Duty Officer, and everybody knows the Duty Officer. Why change what works? And what does that have to do with telling an appropriate story for the situation?
"The humans are a rather repressed species, and in the interests of preventing problems among the younger of our new colleagues, I've had to alter your normal responsibilities. Nothing has changed in practice," he assures you. Yeah, he saw that appointment pop up in his appointment queue. "On the surface, however, you are being assigned to the rank of Sergeant. Humans don't sexualize any portion of military rank, so we are changing the public portion of your responsibilities to a more human-friendly role. It will allow you to mingle with the ranks as needed and pay special attention to - "
"Hot Rod," you sigh. "I noticed he'd been moved to Earth. Any problems so far?"
Ultra Magnus coughs as if to loosen his vocalizer. "Nothing but the usual, for assignment to an alien planet."
You eye him wryly. "Run-away cases of xenophilia among the crew, eh?"
Another cough. You wonder if you're going to have to unpack a bunch of your more exotic stories tonight, just for his edification. How many stories about soft species do you have on file? Hmm.
"A few. Mostly on the level of friendly fascination, but, ah. That may change." A nod to you and your ability to unlock interfacing desires. You are the best of the best, after all.
You shake your head and push it aside for discussion during his appointment slot. "Sergeant, huh? I can play that part. Might be good just for dealing with this bunch." Grimlock's profile flashes on the screen as you lift the datapad. You sound as exasperated as you feel. "Younglings. I'm probably gonna have to start from the beginning with them."
"Will you be able to handle it?"
"Please," you scoff. "I've been doing this how long, now? If I couldn't guide a bunch of ignorant goons around, I'd retire."
Ultra Magnus smiles, suddenly relieved. "Thank you, Kup. I knew we could count on you."
You fail to be surprised when, later in the preliminary interview, Grimlock shows you the Dinobots' mudpit. He sloshes about talking about the various kinds of dirt he likes.
Yep. From the very beginning.
[* * * * *]
Name: Rewind
Availability: Noncombatant, generally free when I'm not making records for posterity or editing footage.
Soft or Rough? : Both
Dirty talk? : Yes [] No [x]
Dominant or Submissive? (Or both.) : Both
Some (Or all) of my turn on's : Directing, theatrics, mood lighting and music, audience participation, enthusiasm.
Other thing's you should know : I'm almost always recording, but if the subject might be sensitive I'll still ask permission.
[* * * * *]
"Frag me frag me frag me frag me - excuse me! - fragging glitch of a speedbump! No, I'm sorry, that wasn't directed at you. Pardon me, coming through, please just move, oh frag my life…"
Still chanting a rain of curses down on your own stupidity, you corner in vehicle mode and transform without dumping a fraction of speed before you hit the stairs. Any doubt you've ever had on whether or not Prowl is trying to sabotage your relationship is long gone. It isn't so much that he showed you the personal ad; it's the smart aft look on his face when he did so. That'd been the look of a mech who got his way but won't gloat about it until your back is turned.
You'd turned it, all right. You left tiremarks on the floor of his office.
"Open, you slagging piece of - " The door pops open, and you skid inside throwing your resident ID code over your shoulder at the persistent security mech who chased you up the stairs. "Here! Take it and go! Jumped up tin whistle, I don't pay maintenance fees for you to harass me, so get lost!" The mech draws himself up and huffs indignantly, but you don't care. You know you're being rude and disrespectful, but he can go recycle exhaust. You're slightly more concerned with the whereabouts of Rewind.
"Oh, Primus." He's never been big on material possessions, but you can tell in a single glance that what little he moved in has now been moved in. Your knees weaken, and you lean against the doorframe. "Oh, Rewind. No."
Your protest is as weak as your knees, because you know this is your fault. You promised him you wouldn't inject again.
Prowl came to you with that proposal, and he appealed to the fact that you're one of the only mnemosurgeons he trusts to work on his cases, and you knew - you knew - it was wrong to help. It was wrong because you're a specialist and a consultant, now. You're an Autobot. The Autobots don't require you to inject. You left that life behind because it was killing you, and Rewind saved more than your sanity by taking you away from it.
In return for that salvation, all he asked for was your promise.
You promised.
You promised, and then you broke your word. Not just once - oh, no. That'd be forgivable, and you've secretly marveled because he's forgiven you anyway. Over, and over again.
He's gotten mad every time, but you've always managed to patch things up with the proper application of groveling under his tiny feet and some deft shifting of blame onto Prowl. It's Prowl's fault most of the time. Rewind understands that. Or, at least, he understood it.
Looks like you're not getting off the hook so easy this time.
"Wait!" You whirl and sprint down the hall after the sulking security mech. "Wait! Did you see where my partner went?! He's only a small mech, the flashdrive, you know him? Do you remember him? You must have seen him moving out!"
The mech meets your gaze and deliberately closes the lift door in your face.
Okay, you deserved that.
Swallowing your pride, you take the stairs two at a time going down. You reach the ground floor as the lift opens, and the blasted thing is empty. Argh!
It takes you a couple minutes to find the building directory and locate the security office. When you arrive, the door's locked. There's a friendly sign up telling you that all security personnel are currently on patrol or assisting fellow residents. They have to earn their exorbitant wages paid by your maintenance fees, after all. Busy people, security personnel!
Now, come on. That's just uncalled for.
You're going to owe buckets of apologies to everyone by the end of the day, you can tell.
It's no use asking around the rest of the building. They're all civilian consultants for the Autobot military, and most of them are working at the moment. That leaves you, a load of guilt crushing your squirming spark, and a personal ad all but designed to set up a porno shoot. Rewind is probably being bombarded by eager applicants right now, and knowing him, he'll be setting up an orgy just to film it. If he particularly feels like grinding you under his little heel, he'll participate. If he's feeling vengeful and wants to make you beg and crawl, he'll transmit the filming to you live.
This isn't the first time he's threatened to leave you and take up filming again. It is the first time he's carried the threat through. You're dreadfully afraid that he's not going to settle for just one shoot, either. He didn't leave a forwarding address or contact information, and if you can't talk him out of being angry, he's going to stay righteously pissed off at you for breaking your word yet again.
You are not looking forward to watching his new films, but you're going to have to. If you're really, really lucky, you'll recognize the location. Maybe if you hang around outside the studio, he'll let you follow him to his new apartment like a lovesick groupie.
Maybe if you show up already on your knees, he'll let you apologize and beg forgiveness before he sends you home alone.
[* * * * *]