Prowl dresses up, recreational fingernomming of all types, and Tarn does his duty by Overlord. Sort of.
Title: Candy From Strangers, Pt. 30
Warning: Fabric? Fingernomming. Gore. Fragging for duty. Bondage, D/s, verbal degradation.
Rating: R
Continuity: IDW, G1
Characters: Prowl, Constructicons, Astrotrain, Skywarp, Soundwave, Starscream, Megatron, Blurr, Swindle, Tarn, Overlord.
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): Various Tumblr things.
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They got to Earth and lost Prowl.
Look, it was Japan. It wasn't like a bunch of construction vehicles could easily get around Japan of all places. They weren't exactly inconspicuous. People actually kept track of construction sites and abnormal vehicle movement, here. They had to obey traffic laws and forge a lot of permits for parking. Even so, Long Haul was too wide for a lot of alleyways. Hook nearly got stuck when they took a wrong turn. They had to travel by themselves or in pairs to avoid suspicion.
They knew Prowl would have an easier time fitting in, which was a relief. Having somebody able to scout for them was kind of nice. He found them a buildsite for the night and assured them he'd park nearby once he finished investigating. They made their careful, cautious way to the site throughout the day and assembled to wait.
When night came and they didn't see a copcar anywhere, the Constructicons realized they'd been making a lot of assumptions. They'd assumed he'd been honest with them. They'd assumed he'd be safe. They'd assumed he'd be as eager to stick close together as they were. They'd assumed he'd check in if something went wrong.
10 PM on a Wednesday night, and five heavy-duty construction vehicles were fretting where they parked. Bonecrusher and Long Haul wanted to track Prowl down right away. Mixmaster and Hook wanted to wait another few hours for him. Scavenger just rocked back and forth, whining anxious blurts of static as he watched the empty streets. This was a residential area. It was dead silent except for the rev of their engines. The last car had gone through half an hour ago. Every family with a garage had their cars tucked away for the night, and those without room had their cars locked and covered, parked neatly on the tiny slips of driveways in front of the narrow houses. Every car had been meticulously cared for and readied for the morning commute.
It made it really obvious that Prowl wasn't coming.
The Constructicons' whispered worries got louder. By 10:30 PM, Hook had smacked Bonecrusher twice with his crane arm to prevent him from transforming and heading downtown. The buildsite had a night guard onsite somewhere they had to be wary of. None of them had seen him yet, but when they'd pulled in, his car had already been parked and covered for the night. Mixmaster had hurriedly passed out some construction company papers to leave on all their dashboards, just in case the man came looking. They'd parked in the middle of some mud puddles to discourage any snooping.
Revving motors would give them away in no time. Hook swung his crane arm about, threatening another smack until Bonecrusher backed down. "I'm sure he's fine!"
"Yeah, he's Prowl," Mixmaster said loyally.
"But - "
"But - "
Static whined, shrilling feedback through all their audios. They froze, windshields facing every direction. That had been loud. The guard had to have heard that.
"Sorry," Scavenger whispered.
Across the buildsite, a motor turned over. Under the thick car cover, headlights flickered on.
They froze again. Aw, frag, they'd been found out. The guard was going to call the cops, and the humans would come swarming. Their cover was blown -
"Settle down," Prowl snapped. His usual cool voice had a tinge of annoyance, and who could blame him? He'd just been woken up. "I expect you ready to move in six hours. This may be the last rest we get for days, so take it!"
Five construction vehicles did very good impressions of losing their jaws, despite not one of them actually have a jaw in altmode to lose.
Headlights flashed sternly in their direction for a moment more before fading again.
Leaving them staring at their boss draped in a form-fitting cloth garment they'd never even imagined him wearing. It was one thing to watch the humans in this neighborhood pamper their personal machines - rub them down, clean them out, and cover them for the night - and something else entirely to see Prowl dressed up. They hadn't even recognized him. They hadn't even recognized him. They were gestalt, and the cloth muffled his appearance so much they were suddenly studying every inch of him like he was a stranger.
A very attractive stranger. Hmm.
For all that they couldn't see more than a teensy hint of his hubcaps under the hemline of that cover, the way it hugged his hood looked absolutely scandalous. The wrinkles where cloth rested on his bumpers were a tease. The cloth turned sleek curves into a vague suggestion of shape, and the Constructicons were mesmerized. From concerned to captivated in a minute flat.
Lost, all of them.
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centerRecreational Fingernomming: Astrotrain and Skywarp/center
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"I'm not getting in trouble for fragging on duty again." Astrotrain shot a look at the door and made sure to nudge the Seeker away. Hot piece of aft or not, there was a time and place for a pounding. It wouldn't be the good kind of pounding if he got caught one more time. "Can't you just…hold it?" He poked a finger dead center on Skywarp's cockpit and extended his arm, pushing back. Shoo. Duty now; frag later.
Skywarp was oblivious to subtle deflections, but he was just as likely to look straight through blunt refusals. Today was apparently a day for ignoring any and all protests. He parked his hot piece of aft on the console and grabbed the hand holding him away from the lap he'd been aiming for. "Nope. I need something in my mouth like now." Except the words came out, "Nope, I need sumfing uhn muh mouf hrigh ow," as he shoved the first three fingers of Astrotrain's hand into his mouth. He happily set to sucking on them.
Astrotrain shuddered in his seat, optics dimming. Skywarp winked and kept talking muffled nonsense between attempts to stuff the shuttle's hand up past the knuckles.
Well, it didn't technically count as fragging, right..?
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centerRecreational Fingernomming: Blurr and Swindle/center
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Swindle said a version of it every night. Blurr kept track.
"I like to keep my hand in."
"I'm keeping my hands busy."
"I'd help, but my hands are full."
"Opportunities like this make my palms itch."
"Proper dealing takes a bit of sleight-of-hand."
"Hands off the goods."
Tonight's version came early, but Blurr had already had his fill. "Don't touch that spigot," he said, sliding up before Swindle could look up from rummaging on the wrong side of the bar.
The ex-Decepticon almost fell off his barstool. "H-hey!" Both hands went up, and Swindle gave a great big slightly nervous smile. "Just looking for a curly straw! No sticky fingers here!"
Yeah, he couldn't pass that up.
Blurr reached over the bar and curled his fingers around one raised wrist. He drew it firmly toward himself, gentle but inescapable, and large purple optics widened. Swindle swallowed but gamely surrendered his hand.
The racer turned bartender studied it closely for a moment before dipping his head. His tongue drew up the hand, broad and flat. It explored across the palm in a wide, warm swathe. A narrow tonguetip slid a teasing moisture between fingers, tasting their sides as Blurr licked slowly up their length. The bar dropped to total silence, quiet enough that Swindle's stuttered fans could be heard out in the street if anyone had been listening.
Swindle's fingers trembled against his lips as Blurr pulled his tongue back in. He smiled, lips curving under their barely-there touch. "Nope. Not sticky at all."
He turned calmly back to work. "Straws are under the icebox," he tossed over his shoulder.
Swindle didn't move.
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centerRecreational Fingernomming: Megatron and Soundwave/center
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His teeth were as sharp as any weapon. He was a weapon.
Soundwave flinched as he bit down, but the visor locked on him never faltered. The energon bleeding from crushed plating and ruptured microlines pulsed out at the steady beat of a calm fuelpump. Megatron smiled, teeth buried in black armor, and sucked the first gush of pink away. When he took his fingers out of his mouth, they were clean for the short journey to Soundwave's own armor.
Then they dripped, vital fluid drizzling down glass as Megatron flattened his hand to the Cassette carrier's chest. He dragged it down, marking Soundwave in energon. Energon, the ultimate source of energy for their species. The Decepticons had chased it across the galaxy. Megatron covered Soundwave in it, fresh and hot from his body, sacrificing energy and pain to paint a visible symbol for everyone to read:
This soldier was more than a soldier. This soldier was as important as energon to Megatron. He was part of him. He was life and body, driving force and fuel to burn one and the same.
Megatron's fuelpump stayed absolutely steady, and his broken fingers painted a reflection of the loyalty given him.
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centerRecreational Fingernomming: Starscream and Soundwave/center
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LD Bibliotecaria_D
To Starscream, Soundwave's hands tasted forbidden. Dusty, dry, their touch fleeting as fingertips ghosted across his plating. What time they stole for more than passing glances promising shared fantasies was never enough. Split loyalties divided them. It could never be, not unless something changed, and what had to change was what kept them apart. The time they had was precious but censored by the awareness that they couldn't do this.
This is what they could do:
Soundwave could lean against him, forehelm to forehelm, visor as dim as Starscream's optics. They swayed in forgotten corners of the base, slow-danced for a brief second before continuing past each other in empty hallways, rested with Soundwave's chest pressed between Starscream's wings. Navy arms embraced brighter colors for just a minute, two at most, and Starscream entwined their fingers over his cockpit. He lifted one hand, Soundwave's cupped over his own, and pressed his mouth to the back. Open-mouthed, he tasted the plating, dragged his breath over the knuckles, and kissed the fingers one by one.
When they separated, they didn't look back, and the flavor on Starscream's tongue reminded him that he shouldn't have done that.
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centerElapuse drew Tarn/Overlord porn ( post/98797257582/um-so-eheh-maybe-some-sub-overlord-with-tarn)/center
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Of all the duties the head of the Justice Division was responsible for, this was the most personally repugnant. Tarn understood why it fell to a loyalist and not a random soldier; volunteering for the duty meant that nobody was forced into it. He knew that. It's why he volunteered. He would dutifully devote his body to the Cause no matter what form that devotion took. That didn't mean he enjoyed being someone's reward.
He wished Lord Megatron would volunteer himself, if only for rewards to the higher ranks. Then again, some of the things Tarn was called upon to do as a reward weren't exactly dignified. The D.J.D. already had a reputation for doing whatever it took. Tarn had no shame. His pride could be sacrificed in the name of the Decepticons. Megatron, however, carried the dignity of the Cause on his shoulders. Polishing the feet of a no-name grunt who'd distinguished his lowly self in some momentous way wouldn't do the Cause any good.
Thus, polishing feet and sundry unpleasant duties were left to those loyal Decepticons willing to lower themselves in Megatron's name. Tarn had no problem leaving his pride at the door. He'd done a lot of things for the Cause he wasn't exactly ashamed of but didn't want to talk about a whole lot afterward, either.
He couldn't imagine he'd want to breathe a word of today's assignment. Overlord had managed to earn a reward. A reward, and Megatron's favor. Those two things combined gave Overlord something above and beyond a commendation. He'd been given access to the List.
No, not that List. The other List. The short List of volunteers who could and would volunteer their services in every sense of the word. Tarn had gotten a glimpse of the names above his own, once, although Soundwave had quickly closed the browser window before he'd been able to see more. Soundwave himself had been listed above him, which did explain the drunken karaoke request that one time. At the time, Tarn had thought it rather strange that Soundwave had mysteriously happened to show up, but he'd been too fendered by then to ask what was going on.
That night had ended in bad music sung in horrible off-sync time with Soundwave, and someone laughing at them. Tarn's memories were very blurry. He hadn't tried to clear them.
What confused him now was that Overlord had requested him. If Soundwave was available, why hadn't Overlord chosen him? Those two had never gotten along. In contrast, Tarn barely knew Overlord. He knew of him, of course, but the Warrior Elite were on the front lines of the war. The Justice Division was an internal organization. The only time they crossed paths was if a Decepticon soldier turned and ran from the carnage Overlord wrecked when set loose. Their brief encounters weren't social in nature.
Tarn remembered a sadistic, bored killer with the lush lips of a pleasure drone. Overlord was a good fighter, one of Lord Megatron's most persistent challengers in the gladiator pits, but he wasn't a good soldier. He'd struck Tarn as too impatient for tactics. The only thing he seemed to care for was the excitement of battle. Things he'd said made Tarn think he was borderline disrespectful of the Cause, as well.
Tarn had written off the passing commentary as a result of casual disregard for a former gladiatorial rival. Megatron valued Overlord, he knew that. He'd made a mental note to watch Overlord in the future if those around him caught the attitude, and then gone on with chasing down actual traitors.
Overlord apparently remembered Tarn much more favorably. It was a mystery.
As if that weren't strange enough, Lord Megatron had delayed Tarn's arrival by two hours. The leader of the Justice Division had been prepared to get Overlord's reward over with, but Lord Megatron had sent word for him push the appointment back. The Decepticon leader had personal business with Overlord, it seemed. Unusual as it was for Lord Megatron to concern himself with a single Decepticon, this was Overlord. He wasn't a common soldier, and they were old rivals. Perhaps they were talking the old days. Maybe they were training.
Tarn didn't know. What he did know that cooling his heels for two hours waiting for them to finish their business didn't make him any happier. Being Overlord's reward looked to be a tired refrain from a familiar tune. He'd read the request form. Some of that equipment required a carpenter to install on the berth beforehand, and while he didn't mind blindfolds, a bit-gag was a pain in the welds to get on behind his mask. The collar and chain didn't have him greatly enthused, and a spreader bar for his ankles merely made him huff, unimpressed. Some mechs had no originality.
At least he'd had two hours to loosen up to the point of restlessness. If Overlord wanted him resisting and tense, he'd be out of luck. Tarn had used every speed on his vibrator and three of his own fingers while he waited, languidly rocking his hips on the chair in front of his console. Taking Overlord's spike sounded just fine, right now. He was probably big. Satisfyingly thick, if his equipment matched his frametype. Tarn had only used three fingers, so there might be a decent stinging stretch if Overlord were any good at this.
He doubted it'd be that easy. These rewards weren't about what he himself wanted, and he rarely found any pleasure in what happened. Tarn told the aching emptiness between his legs not to get its hopes up as he walked briskly toward the assigned room.
Wait, where was he? These didn't look like habitation suites. Had he gotten turned around somewhere?
Tarn stopped and glanced back down the hall, wondering if he'd gone the wrong way. A hazard of going from base-to-base in a constant search for the List was not always knowing the layout of any given base. The numbers on the doors checked out, but he'd just passed the gun range. Nobody would want to bunk near the gun range. The armory was across the hall, and nobody put their living quarters by the explosives.
Yet that was the door number he was looking for. Tarn double-checked. One door down from the gun range, Room 84-C-Deck: the training rink.
He lifted his hand to knock, hesitated, and decided to just palm the access panel. It was a public room, after all. The door opened, and -
"Lord Megatron!" Tarn snapped to attention, optics wide. "I apologize for the interruption! Central informed me the appointment had been moved to now. I wasn't aware that you were still busy."
His leader held up a hand to calm him. "You're not interrupting. You are, in fact, right on time." A smile curled one corner of his mouth, and his optics narrowed in savage satisfaction. "As ever, you're an example of a Decepticon at his finest."
Pleasure flushed heat through his systems. Compliments from Lord Megatron weren't given lightly. "Thank you, my Lord."
He belatedly realized the rattle and hiss he heard was from Lord Megatron's overtaxed fans, and his commander was only now reattaching the mighty fusion cannon Tarn had modeled his own weaponry after. Having been trained by his leader, Tarn recognized the signs even before Lord Megatron cleared the door - Tarn had stepped aside in deference, of course - and revealed an utterly destroyed sparring floor. He felt a pang of fond memory and remembered awe. Lord Megatron in action embodied a peculiar brutal beauty, all the more so when one was the focus of that brutality.
Lord Megatron waved him into the room with a flourish, still smirking. "Overlord is ready for his reward. Tell him I sent you." He turned to stride away, tossing a final comment over his shoulder. "The loser takes whatever the winner chooses to give him."
Mystified, Tarn managed some semblance of acknowledgment before Lord Megatron turned the corner. He stared after him for a moment. How strange. He wasn't sure how he felt about being 'given' by his leader. The reward system wasn't anything new, but bluntly phrasing it to objectify Tarn like that felt like a shocking bluntness.
He shook his head and stepped through the door.
Obviously, Lord Megatron and Overlord must have been sparring until Tarn arrived. He swept the wrecked room with a look, and another shock pushed Lord Megatron's strange words from his mind. He'd been expecting a berth and equipment best used with one's eager lover, but...well, there was the equipment, and a tumbling mat had been folded up into the approximate dimensions of a shipboard berth. The wall fixtures were even in place. The part of his mind not stunned blank pictured the poor carpenter dodging fighting titans as hooks and rings were bolted into place. Or perhaps the carpenter had worked while gaping at Lord Megatron beating Overlord down, wrestling him into position, and gearing him up.
Carpenters must lead interesting lives in this base.
Lord Megatron's parting words suddenly made much more sense. Tarn blinked rapidly as the past couple of minutes reorganized in his head.
Overlord shifted on his knees in front of him, growling low and angry deep in his chest. The sound came out muffled by the bit-gag forced between generous lips. The spreader bar between his ankles clinked against the floor as he moved, but his hands rested quite tamely between his knees. Angry as he sounded, Overlord knelt like a good pet waiting for directions, blindfolded optics downcast. The leash attached to his collar was dropped on the floor where Lord Megatron must have thrown it carelessly as he left.
The collar itself looked welded on. Professionally closed, and the thick silver wedge of solder was ground down smooth. Tarn wondered if the carpenters in this base had special training or something. Extra pay bonuses for keeping their silence, at the very least.
Overlord's head tilted suspiciously as the door closed, and Tarn's valve sent an excited throb through his belly. It pulled at the base of his tanks in hungry pangs of empty need. Tarn blinked again.
Then he smiled. Dropping his voice into the silky tones of an orator, rich and factual, he told Overlord precisely what the Warrior Elite waited to hear: "I've been sent by Lord Megatron. It seems he's chosen to reward you tonight."
Overlord's hips rose just slightly, bucking. The growl faltered, becoming a thin whine.
"No, I don't think so." Tarn walked forward to circle the kneeling mech at a leisurely pace. "You'll take what he gives you and be grateful he spared you any attention at all." He found a particularly deep dent in the shape of a knuckle and sank his fingertips into it, cruelly pushing the bent metal further down into the sensor network underneath.
Overlord's whole body convulsed, rising up into the pain, and Tarn seized him by the back of the collar. He bent down faster than light to hiss, "No. Do you want me to leave?" Overlord froze, but Tarn set his chin on the bound mech's shoulder to pour honeyed, poisoned thoughts into his audio. "If you won't be properly grateful and do as you're told, I could simply bind you to the wall. Leave you spread-eagled for the next off-duty shift of bored soldiers to find. You're a Warrior Elite, but your reputation won't stop them for long. They'll call their friends once it's clear you've been left for anyone to use. You know what the rank and file are like. They'll call everyone. And soldiers run in packs, you know that. They're used to working together. They'll have your feet so far apart you'll walk bow-legged for weeks. You'll be exposed for everyone to see until the bent-back covers over your spike and valve pop back in enough to close. They'll peel you open, stuff you full, fight over who gets to mount your spike or drill your ports. Their friends will all be from the same unit. Closeknit friends. They'll share you among themselves. I believe they'll figure out how to fit three spikes in you. It's all logistics, you know."
The words glided out of Tarn's vocalizer and coated Overlord in satin-sleek filth, dripping like hot oil. Fans whirred, and Overlord's knee guards screeched softly across the floor as his thighs widened for an imagined crowd of takers. Tarn had heard his panels snap open early on. He didn't worry about having to force those open, but pretending was part of the point, wasn't it? Overlord savored the threat of what might happen, bound and blindfolded like this.
Tarn stroked a hand down Overlord's back, squeezed his aft in passing, and stopped his fingers just short. Overlord whined again, aft tipping up and back in an attempt at encouraging them, but Tarn chuckled throatily in denial. His fingers traced the rim of Overlord's valve with the lightest touch possible. Overlord's chest heaved, ventilation system spasming for more air as internal temperature bolted into redline.
"You'd like that. It'd almost be enough, wouldn't it? Ah, our Lord Megatron won't deign to take you himself," it was a guess, but Overlord's tortured moan told Tarn how accurate it'd been, "but three spikes thrusting and grinding into you might take the edge off. They might be big enough, but it's the pain you want. You want him to split you open. I can feel how badly you want him." He gave Overlord a single finger to clench and squirm on. His own valve reminded him of its emptiness. "I should leave you for that."
"Nnngh." Overlord made a more guttural noise, lower and rougher, but Tarn stirred his finger. Another finger teased over the slick rim. The Warrior Elite's little noises cut off cold. He gasped once, sucking in a deep breath and holding it. His hips bucked, chasing the elusive taunt of Tarn's fingers. They pulled out, and Tarn cupped his hand over Overlord's valve, feeling how heat bathed his palm. The bound mech's head rolled back to thunk against him.
A tiny whimper pleaded for the return of even one finger, just one, one was better than none. Tarn gave it to him, thrusting it in with excruciating slowness despite how Overlord desperately rocked his hips. Unbound hands left the floor, grasping at nothing, and Tarn stopped moving immediately.
His voice crackled icy disapproval. "No."
Both hands slapped back to the floor as if magnetized, and Overlord shook heavily for a moment. Tarn waited patiently for him to regain control. It took a while. Overlord rolled the bit between his teeth, champing, but Tarn's patience paid off.
Eventually, Overlord hung his head in defeat. He'd be good. He'd already lost, after all. He'd take what he was given and appreciate that he'd been given anything.
Tarn let his finger move in and out a fraction of an inch in reward for the good behavior. The delicate, gentle stimulation woke a tremor in powerful thighs. The longer Tarn kept his fingertip just barely dipped in, dabbling short strokes, the longer the pauses between Overlord's breaths grew.
Overlord was sobbing, lips slack around the bit, by the time Tarn decided he'd had enough. "Am I going to have to leave you here?" he asked sweetly.
The bowed head shook a violent negative. Overlord almost fell into position under Tarn's hand, valve exposed and begging for more than whispers of touch. Tarn simply laughed and stood up. The mech at his feet cried out, frustrated past dignity.
Tarn gave him the toe of his foot to rut against for a moment, just to watch how frantically the mech grabbed onto any substitute. Overlord fought the spreader bar to get his legs far enough apart to rub his valve over Tarn's foot, and Tarn shook his head at the frankly pornographic writhing. Overlord's hips twisted and rolled, but no matter how he scrabbled at the floor and flexed his ankles against the spreader bar, he just couldn't get the right angle to get the friction he craved. The frustrated, needy sounds were starting to slide into pleading moans.
"No? Then you'll take what Lord Megatron's given you." Tarn took his foot out of reach, and Overlord yelled protest behind the gag. Tarn knelt and yanked him up by the collar, purring in a practiced tone, "And what Lord Megatron's given you is me, so don't think you're getting off that easy." His voice caressed Overlord's spark, soundwaves hitting like the lash of a whip.
For most mechs, that meant pain. For Overlord, that meant something completely different. The yell became a scream, full-throated and loud.
Tarn stood, hand on the mech's collar. The chain leash still lay where Lord Megatron had let it fall, and the loop at the head of the makeshift berth was giving him ideas. His valve felt far too empty, and he had a perfectly functional toy right here to fill it.
Time to see how obedient a pet Overlord truly was.
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