Astrotrain and Perceptor are in debt to Swindle, Rodimus doesn't give up on Drift or Ultra Magnus, Overlord gets his aft handed to him (twice), Black Shadow gets eaten and eats out.
Title: Candy From Strangers, Pt. 31
Warning: Robots in clothes, blackmail, slavery? My Little Ponies. Cannibalism, vore, sex, enjoying it way too much, fluid overabundance.
Rating: R
Continuity: IDW, G1
Characters: Perceptor, Astrotrain, Reflector, Swindle, Drift, Rodimus, Ultra Magnus, Mirage, Black Shadow, Tarn, Overlord.
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors.
Motivation (Prompt): Some old stuff, hassling Tumblr RP blogs.
[* * * * *]
Viking
[* * * * *]
The Stunticons had built the place so they'd have a land-bound base to race from, but on Megatron's orders the relatively small facility had been abandoned as a waste of time. Popular theory was that the Decepticon cars had pissed him off that week, and taking away their fun had been the silver tyrant's response. That didn't mean the Stunticons didn't occasionally sneak off to make the highways around their base a hazard, but the entire gestalt team was tied up in a raid somewhere in Europe today.
All three of the robots in the room — well, five if one wanted to be technical — thanked their lucky whatever that the base was deserted. They'd each made sure of that before even agreeing to meet here, for a whole slew of reasons varying from the practical to personal. Astrotrain had refused to budge from the underwater base until the Stunticons were on their way. Even then, he'd checked the main base scanners to make sure the sidebase was abandoned for real.
But abandoned it was. He'd checked and double-checked, but his procrastination had come to an end with one preemptory radio summons. He'd sneaked out of the base with a leaden feeling in his fuel tanks. What he was doing bothered him, and not in a Skywarp's-rigged-the-door kind of way. It was a deeper issue.
There was no question of his loyalty to the Decepticon cause. Or rather, the one who dared question it would soon find himself abandoned somewhere in deep space with every hope of rescue disabled. Astrotrain took the Decepticon cause seriously. His loyalty to Megatron could be somewhat…negotiable at times, but he'd never wavered in his loyalty to the faction itself.
While Reflector's components were hard to get a read on, they had always seemed to show more loyalty to the tyrant than the cause. That made Reflector one of the things Astrotrain noticed like a fleck of space debris on his wings on re-entry: it annoyed him, but it never caused any serious friction for him to worry about. It was a difference in opinion that they'd never worked closely enough to argue about. That could describe three-quarters of the Decepticon forces. As long as they weren't actively shooting each other in the back, Astrotrain and Reflector casually ignored each other.
Honestly, they would have been quite happy to remain on passing terms. Unfortunately, a set of crimson fuzzy wrist and ankle manacles plus a length of heavy black, crude iron chain had ever-so-awkwardly twisted their lack of relationship into an embarrassing direction.
Oh, yeah. Factional issues aside, this was one Pit of a humiliating situation. Not that he could forget that, what with the cuffs and chain intertwined like alien script on the floor between them. Astrotrain had the morbid feeling that if he could read them, the strange, flowing shapes would spell out the universe laughing at him. He couldn't force his optics away. Meanwhile, Reflector's three components studiously looked everywhere but at the items on the floor.
The cuffs were gaudy, true, and certainly embarrassing, but the reason Astrotrain couldn't look up shifted in similar discomfort across the room. If he looked up, he'd attack. Decepticon cause, loyalty, all that. He wondered vaguely if Reflector was having the same problem. It wasn't like the two (four?) Decepticons couldn't destroy the other robot without a problem. Astrotrain could probably do it himself, lack of flying space or no. Perceptor's design spoke of a science lab, not the battlefield. They could take him.
Under normal circumstances, that was. However, their hands were effectively tied.
Astrotrain winced internally at that thought. Well, they weren't literally tied, at least not yet.
From the look of things, they would be. That grated on him, much as his helplessness did. Like Reflector and the Autobot across the room, he wasn't here because he wanted to be. They were all here because there was a substantial amount of debt hanging over their heads like an axe. It almost made him want to start a conversation with the other two (four?) Cybertronians, just to find out what they were in for. They were stuck here whether they wanted to kill each other or not. Might as make the best of a lousy situation, right? Money could make allies of any faction. If nothing else, they could unite in hatred against the one they owed.
The door at the end of the room opened, and Astrotrain's lip curled. Speak of the devil.
"I suppose you want to know why I called you here today!" Swindle said jovially, his typical nervous body language replaced with the confident gloating of someone who has sufficient blackmail. Five angry glares speared him in response, but he just chuckled. "Well! Let's get started, shall we?"
[* * * ]
Perceptor could not remember any time in his life that he had been quite so embarrassed. Angry, perhaps. At some point he must have felt the same level of hatred toward Megatron or his like, but the hot-cold rush of humiliation through his circuitry was unmatched. Although he knew it was only a trick of his overwrought emotions, his shoulders unconsciously rotated in an attempt to ease what felt like a blocked relay down his back.
Unfortunately, that pulled against the leather straps wrapped over his chest, and his thoughts stalled into yet another dead end of 'Dear Cybertron, I look a fool.'
Analyzing his situation didn't distract him from the fact that he was stuck in it.
His uncomfortable shifting brought an amused, brisk reprimand from the other side of the room. "Stop moving. You want this to take all day? Lift your chin and look over there again."
The Autobot frowned lightly and turned his head back into position. He wasn't entirely sure if he was grateful the ridiculous thing covering his head cut off his usual visual range. He didn't really want to see the others in the room, but at the same time, he didn't want to let them out of his sight. "Our agreement implicitly states that you would finish before my comrades question my whereabouts. Therefore, it would be against our verbal contract for this event to last longer than three hours."
A harsh bark of laughter told him how seriously that contract was being taken. "Look, buddy. You owe me. You can leave anytime you want to," Swindle invited, "and I'll send a bill to Optimus Prime. Howzat sound?" Perceptor's head whipped around, the strange helmet balanced over his helm falling off with the abrupt motion, and the Decepticon smiled so slimily it seemed odd his face was actually made of metal. "It's not my problem if you have to explain why you needed 30 'dirty nuke' warheads on short notice."
The con artist had him, and he knew it. Prime wouldn't object to the nuclear weapons once Perceptor explained why they'd been necessary, but bargaining for them from a Decepticon would ruin the Autobot scientist's credibility. Shady dealings had a way of coming back to bite.
Perceptor's optics narrowed to angry slits. He picked the odd, horned helmet up with a jerky movement quite unlike his usual efficient manner.
As the Combaticon called out instructions for the next pose, Perceptor reined in his temper. He supposed that he should be glad Swindle hadn't wanted money in some form. Money, he didn't have. The size of his debt had concerned Perceptor, but the promised results had simply been too much for his curiosity to bear. The benefits for the Autobot-human alliance would be extraordinary, of course. At the beginning of the experiment, he'd put off worrying about how much he owed Swindle. It wasn't the first time monetary concerns came in second to his professional passion, but this time he felt something close to regret for giving in to his calling. He'd had to discretely work off a debt before, but never like this. This…this defied description.
Alright, so he could describe it. He just didn't want to.
He'd always know that there were, ah, gray market areas for imagery of the illicit arts, but he'd never had any personal experience in them. Aside from rumors heard in passing from his cruder fellow Autobots, it had never been openly admitted to in his limited social circle of intellectuals. Buying such things bordered on taboo.
Besides, the war had accelerated science's combat specializations and leeched away any inclination he might have had toward kinks. What he found interesting or pleasurable came in second to his work. Soldiers, especially scientist soldiers, rarely had free time.
In a way, he mused as he changed poses, it would make sense that such desires would be catered to in the midst of the war. The rare breaks a soldier got would be filled with a nigh-starving search for entertainment to distract from the reality of war. Escapism was a legitimate pursuit, and providing soldiers their escape had to be a profitable enterprise.
Hence, Swindle's demand for payment. Although what creature, Cybertronian or otherwise, would pay for images of an Autobot dressed in an outlandish costume of textured animal hides and metal buckles…
Distaste twisted Perceptor's face before he could smooth it out, but the Decepticon profiteer brightened visibly. "Hey, yeah! Keep that expression!" The Autobot's blue optics conveyed an eloquently skeptical message, and Swindle shrugged, comfortably ignoring Perceptor's indignant, humiliated anger. "It makes you look more savage. Goes with the outfit, see?"
Perceptor didn't see. In fact, he'd willfully blind himself to prevent seeing if he thought it'd help. He nearly opened his mouth to express his opinion in terms that would strip paint off the walls, but iron self-control clamped down before he could lower himself to acting like the barbarian he was dressed to appear as. Instead, he refocused his optics on a spot on the ceiling and shut his mouth into a grim, disapproving line. Swindle had the upper hand.
The Decepticon was going to sell pictures of him to the highest bidder on an interplanetary gray market, pictures that would likely come back to haunt Perceptor when he least needed it. Surely it wasn't too high a price to pay?
"No, no! You're doing it all wrong! Turn your hip toward me, and try to look less like a wimpy Autobot, would you? Geez."
Yes. Yes, it was.
Probably the worst part about the whole debacle was that he, Perceptor, one of Cybertron's few geniuses, was being reduced to a picture. A novelty item noted for how he looked instead of how brilliant he was. Yet for all his intelligence, he couldn't think of any way to get out of this situation without dire consequences. Mere humiliation wouldn't ruin his reputation like admitting debt to Swindle would. The Combaticon had - at Perceptor's insistence - signed a contract which would prevent anyone from finding out who exactly had shot the photos. If another Autobot found the photos somehow, it could be passed off as a private endeavor. Personal scandal aside, it wouldn't hurt the Autobots as a faction.
Coldly fuming, Perceptor turned a poisonous look on Swindle before a fresh rush of hot ice skitter along his relays at the sight of the robot looming behind the smaller Combaticon. He jerked his optics away, embarrassed all over again. Dear Cybertron, he looked a fool.
Astrotrain, cuffed in fuzzy restraints, seemed just as embarrassed. He didn't seem to be able to take his optics off Perceptor, however. From the way Swindle kept checking the shuttle's reactions, the sly conmech had already found his first buyer for the Autobot's photoset.
[* * * * *]
Drift
[* * * * *]
Rodimus championed lost causes. It was a thing he did. Whatever deep well his excitement came from, it fueled a great push of enthusiasm for causes other people would have long given up on. When sane people gave up, he kept fighting. He enjoyed it.
"I hate this. I hate that I can't get this. I can get it!" He batted Drift's hand aside and repositioned his arms, this time so he wouldn't accidentally chop open his own head. "Okay. I got this."
He swung. He missed. He swore a lot. He was having an awful time doing basic sword moves.
Drift suppressed a grin and moved in to help. Rodimus swore at him, too.
He tried not to take it personally. Rodimus' language was no more colorful than the abuse regularly spouted between Decepticons, and it was said with better humor. The bright obscenities tended to use more creative grammatical structures, but they sounded almost juvenile compared to what he was used to. He didn't find it funny, not quite, but Rodimus would be confused if he took it as more than a joke.
Ultra Magnus, of course, had no audio for the difference. He visibly repressed the need to chastise the captain's language as he approached, and Rodimus heaped some foul language on the universe in general at the sight of the stack of datapads in his hands. Drift found that more entertaining. Even Decepticons knew that filework required the ritual application of verbal abuse.
"Captain, these need your urgent attention."
Yeah, Rodimus wasn't falling for that six times in a row. He kept the sword up and eyed his second-in-command from around the inside of his elbow as if debating whether or not to use the sword as a defense against the evil datapad swarm. "Urgent as in 'we're all going to die,' or urgent in your perspective?"
Drift bit down on the inside of his lip to keep the smile to himself. Laughing would only make Ultra Magnus dislike him more. A few months acquaintance as they worked together had given him insight into the Duly Appointed Enforcer's selection of disapproving frowns. For as much stern intimidation was packed into that particular frown, it still looked like a pout to his experienced optic.
"They are important documents that need to be reviewed for safe operation of the ship!"
"Ah-ah!" Rodimus slung the sword back on his shoulder. Drift gingerly removed his slightly-sliced fingers as soon as the captain realized he'd nearly buried the blade into said shoulder. Rodimus looked at the cuts with wide optics - Drift closed his hand to stem the bleeding - and roughly reset his vocalizer. What had he been doing? Right. Sword (carefully!) on shoulder, finger wagging in Ultra Magnus' face. "Immediate crisis or stuff that can wait?"
The glowering rock met the irrepressible hard object. Drift pretended to be invisible.
"They can wait," Ultra Magnus admitted reluctantly.
"Great!" The sword almost chopped into his throat as he whipped his head around to beam at Drift. "Let's try this again."
Ultra Magnus flopped into a chair nearby as Drift repositioned Rodimus' hands and arms. It was the most relaxed Drift ever saw the Duly Appointed Enforcer, and he couldn't help but dart quick glanced sidelong as him. Any time Drift talked to him, Ultra Magnus stiffened up like a board. Drones had more relaxed stances. Crew members reported a phenomenon of petrification: every word they spoke somehow caused Ultra Magnus to become harder, his armor clamping close and struts straightening until he marched in rigid disapproval throughout the halls. One day, they fully expected to find an Ultra Magnus statue in one of the shuttle bays, frozen forever with arms folded and scowl in place.
It wouldn't surprise Drift, anyway.
But then the weird thing happened, the thing that nobody else on the crew got to see. Drift rather thought that the only reason he knew it happened was all the time he spent around Rodimus.
Ultra Magnus stomped into Rodimus' presence, and the captain popped his pressure valve.
Drift couldn't put it any other way. It was amazing. The Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord would storm up to the bridge or into Rodimus' office, usually demanding that something be done, and Rodimus deflated him.
It wasn't the dismissal. It wasn't how Rodimus laughed in Ultra Magnus' face over the trivial misconducts that the Enforcer insisted were crimes. It wasn't ignoring his wants and needs. Rodimus did all of that. He did it, but he also worried about whether Ultra Magnus was right. He asked about Ultra Magnus' health and tried to get him to take time for himself. His callous disregard for other people's feelings became part of his charisma in a mysterious meld of personal charm, self-centered egoism, and real concern. Rodimus thought Ultra Magnus was the anti-fun of overreacting, rule-bound authority figures, but at the same time, he glommed onto the Duly Appointed Enforcer.
It was a backhanded respect, but it was respect.
Drift wrapped his hands around Rodimus' wrists and watched Ultra Magnus. The mech slumped in his seat to brood, a storm of unaddressed concerns darkening the air around him, but every once and a while, Drift caught him paying attention to the sword drill. The thick lines creasing the seams between his facial plating eased as Magnus relaxed a fraction. The tension inside him lightened, if just a tiny amount. His fingers fell out of their dents bent into the arm rests. He watched Rodimus screw up and curse like a dockworker, and for a few minutes, Ultra Magnus looked curiously at peace.
Drift didn't smile at Rodimus' swearing or Ultra Magnus sitting on the sidelines. He didn't want to draw attention to what might be unintentional on both ends. He was never really sure, when it came to Rodimus' lost causes. So much of how Rodimus captained felt like a sanitized, Autobot interpretation of Decepticon leadership. Was it an awkward attempt to put him at ease, include him more? Did Rodimus just fit in better somewhere between the factions?
Insult those closest to you. Never directly show concern. Always put yourself first. Open, undiluted emotions were a weakness.
"I hate this! I hate you!" Rodimus yanked away from him and immediately waved away his own words. "You know what I mean. Magnus! Here, we should trade." Drift almost jumped in shock, but his surprise had nothing on Ultra Magnus'. Rodimus zipped over to pull the datapads out of big hands, and Drift dove after him as the sword was shoved in to replace the pile.
"Careful!"
"Rodimus!"
Their captain didn't even look up from the top datapad. He just waved a hand at them. "You guys train. I'll do this." He didn't appear to notice or care that Drift had another cut across his palm, or that Drift was now all but in Ultra Magnus' lap.
Ultra Magnus immediately stood up and dumped him to the floor, but Drift was okay with that. "Captain, this is hardly - "
Rodimus did one of those impossible jointless moves Drift swore he'd copy one day, and Ultra Magnus' chair became property of the captain. "Mmm. You want me to work on this or not?"
Drift nailed the corners of his mouth down. That was a pouting frown. Deeeeeeefinitely a pouting frown. Poor Ultra Magnus.
Poor him, for that matter. "Uh…would you like to learn?" He wrestled his smile into an appropriately sympathetic Our-Captain-Is-Making-Us-Play-Nice-Together expression. He honestly couldn't tell if Rodimus was trying to help them get along or if the captain just didn't care about how much Ultra Magnus disliked ex-Decepticons in general and Drift in particular. With Rodimus, it could go either way.
Armor puffed up, rigid with irritation but moving. The peculiar pressure-release of Rodimus' immaturity put Ultra Magnus in that strange mood where he didn't quite know how to handle the curveballs of life aboard the Lost Light. Which might have been Rodimus' plan all along. Drift didn't know. He got the distinct feeling he was one of the captain's lost causes, too.
He slid into a stance as Ultra Magnus peered down at him. If Rodimus wasn't going to give up on them, then the least Drift could do was play along.
"Uggggggh, I want to trade back," Rodimus muttered two minutes into the lesson. "This is so boring."
Drift corrected Magnus' grip and didn't smile. It hurt his face a little.
"I don't even get why front hull needs a patch. Didn't we just get that repaired?
Magnus frowned at the comparatively tiny sword in his hands, but his annoyance was tempered considerably by splitting his concentration between keep his hold and answering Rodimus' question. "A temporary patch is not the same as permanent repairs." And he was off, explaining the whys and wherefores and reasons and budgeting, which had Rodimus lying upside-down on the chair clutching his head as Ultra Magnus droned on. The captain whined complaints the whole time.
Lies. Rodimus was enjoying himself. Drift was sure of it.
[* * * * *]
Decepticonsensual asked for, "post-war, Decepticons won AU. Mirage went undercover as a member of the DJD, and then got stranded by the abrupt Decepticon victory and is now basically stuck playing his role until he can find a way out. Meanwhile, Tarn somehow ended up with Prowl as a plaything to reward him for his loyalty to the Decepticon cause (or [insert plot excuse here]), so Mirage has to deal with the fact that his ex-boss is chained up in the next room and Tarn is determined to break him psychologically. With loads of worldbuilding about the post-war Decepticon regime, and a Scavengers or Combaticons cameo. And Overlord! Covered in chocolate!"
[* * * * *]
Mirage almost jumped out of his armor when the door abruptly relocated to the far end of the room, kicked in by -
The shape seemed to be that of Overlord, but this was not an Overlord Mirage knew. "You," the dripping monstrosity roared, pointing a gooey finger at him. Multicolored sparkles flew out of his mouth. "Vos! Where is he?!"
"Uh..." There was only one person Overlord could possibly be looking for if it wasn't Vos' boss, who was half out of his seat at the moment, staring incredulously at the walking mess. If it wasn't Tarn, it had to be Mirage's boss, and Mirage was far more reluctant to hand his actual boss over to sticky, sparkly fury.
"What happened?" Tarn was a skilled vocalist. He managed to disguise a gut laugh in appalled disgust. Almost.
It earned the leader of the D.J.D. a glare hot enough the chocolate should have ignited. Some of the sparkles did, but unfortunately, it just made the spray of sparkles look like pretty confetti. "Your blasted pet Autobot tactician fooled us. That accursed pony planet wasn't even finished with Phase One, much less ready for Phase Six!"
"Ah..." Tarn worked his mouth for a moment. "I, ah, take it that the invasion failed?"
Overlord turned and slurched back the way he'd come. "No, I just decided to keep this paint job for the shock value."
"Is he serious?" Helex whispered. "I can't tell."
Mirage turned apprehensive optics toward Tarn. If Prowl really had managed to deceive everyone, the enslaved Autobot would be facing discipline Vos, much less Mirage, could spare him from. That could be bad, very bad.
From the way Tarn was staring after Overlord, however, Mirage honestly wasn't worried.
[* * * * *]
Tarn the cook
[* * * * *]
An invitation to Tarn's kitchen had been a surprise, but in the sense that Overlord hadn't thought of Tarn as a cook. He seemed the type to savor food, not make it. Cookies and main courses were to be enjoyed, not labored over. It was mildly shocking to find out that the loyalist considered himself a gourmet chef.
"Why is it so surprising?" Tarn asked as Overlord took a tour around the room. "I take care of my unit. Health & Safety isn't just the mandate of a few medics."
That made a kind of sense. It did smell rather delightful in here. The fluffy pink foam creation on the far counter must have just set, and Overlord wanted a slice. If Tarn made things like that regularly, his unit must be pampered between missions.
Overlord pulled out a drawer and studied the contents. "Where do you get your supplies?"
"Here and there. I have a list."
"Cute wordplay." Tarn cocked his head at him. "'List,' yes, very funny. I get it." Tarn snorted softly at his guest's dry tone, but Overlord had turned away already. He picked a utensil out of the drawer to admire, testing the nasty dual prongs on his fingers. "If I didn't know better, I'd say this was a torture chamber. Tools of torture in the drawers - "
"That a fork."
"Like there's much of a difference? I use forks, too." He mimed jabbing the prongs into a joint and twisting. Tarn shrugged to concede the point. "As I was saying, tools of torture, lots of counter space, a convenient center slab - "
"It's called an island."
"It's a repurposed medibay slab."
"It's in a kitchen. It's a counter island. Get it right."
Overlord poked the fork in Tarn's direction. "It still has magnetic restraint locks on the corners."
Tarn walked over to scowl down at the maligned kitchen island. "It does not."
"They're clearly right there. Look!" Overlord shouldered the shorter mech aside, ignoring how Tarn immediately grabbed his elbow, and slammed his hand down on the lock. "They probably still - "
The maglock clicked.
" - work."
The kitchen was very quiet, suddenly. Overlord's systems winding down could be clearly heard.
Overlord stared down at his trapped hand, completely calm. "I walked right into this, didn't I." It didn't even phase him that the elbow Tarn had grabbed was now numb from the joint down. One arm numb, his other arm magnetized down to a solid slab, and the fork clattered to the floor as dull numbness slowly crept up his arm.
Tarn stepped back and laid the syringe on the decorative platter holding the foam cake he'd made earlier. "You did. Would you like to lay down now, or do you prefer me to toss you up on the slab once you're unconscious?"
Whatever he'd been injected with, it acted fast. Dreamily detached from his rising sense of rage and panic, Overlord sat down on the slab. Every piece of him that touched the slab immediately locked to it. He remembered the feel. If it weren't for the drug in his tubes, he'd have had a chance of tearing the slab up and fighting free, but short of breaking it apart, he wouldn't be going anywhere until the maglocks released.
"You were being serious," he realized. "You do have a list. The List."
Tarn nodded. "It wasn't wordplay." He rescued the fork from the floor and eyed it for damage. It seemed fine. "I get most of my ingredients from List mechs, but only those that deserve it. There's something poetic in recycling the dregs of the ranks into a more useful form for the Decepticons." A smile stretched behind his mask. "Waste not, want not. Only the freshest ingredients for my unit. The ones that scream the most taste the best."
He really should care about this. Overlord regarded the idea of being turned into food with no interest. Disconnected from reality, he watched Tarn putter around getting a large, shallow pan out and testing the broiler. "Is that a marinade?"
"It is. Would you like to hear how you'll be prepared?"
Overlord laid back on the slab and offlined his optics. "Why not?"
"First course will be the last prepared. I'll drain your innermost energon. I have a drill that should get through…anyway, I try to keep a small reserve of innermost energon to offer the others on special occasions. It has a unique taste, as I'm sure you know. I haven't decided yet if I should remove your entire spark chamber and pass it around with a straw, or just drain it. Presentation is important. An entire spark chamber is rather macabre, but it does make a bold statement. An opening salvo for the meal, so to speak."
"Sounds nice." He felt like he was floating. Locked down, unable to move, but floating.
Metal scraped on metal. When he lit his optics, wearily curious, he saw that Tarn had a carving knife out. Sparks flew as he sharpened it.
"It takes skill to cut slices without a saw. Skill, and a very sharp knife. It's important to have clean edges, however. No melting, and no saw. I can't risk igniting the rest of you while I take the prime cuts out of your torso and legs, and ragged edges spray when sawing." Tarn shook his head. "It has to be a knife. I want a slow welling of fluids as I cut in, and a good dripping as gravity pulls it down. I'll catch most of it in the tray," he gestured at the pan, "to use with the marinade. It's a high-acid marinade to penetrate that ununtrium coating of yours. Quite a delicacy, that. I've been working on a recipe to complement it since you were put on the List."
Oh, well now he just felt special. "Will I get a taste?"
Tarn tested the blade and kept sharpening. "Perhaps. I intend to take some fillets from down your back while the second course is marinating, and drain you a bit. Natural bleeding is best, of course. Hanging you to drain after death doesn't give everything the same taste. A working fuel pump makes all the difference. In any case, a quick sauté in a sauce of your own fuel to blister the paint and heat the metal should be enough. If you make it through preparing the second course, that will cook fast enough that you should get to try the third as well. Fourth course…"
He stepped closer and leaned in to check Overlord's optics. The lenses were fully dilated. "Fourth course, I may use a saw after all."
"I like saws."
"Then you'll enjoy this." Without touching Overlord's magnetized metal, Tarn drew a line across his forehelm. "Open up your helm and let everyone have a taste of your brain module. I might just take off your whole head and present the dish inside your cranial cavity. Start the dinner with your innermost energon in your spark chamber, and end it with your brain module in your severed head," he mused. "Crude decorations, but they'll appreciate it."
Overlord wanted to nod, but he was too tired to fight the maglock. "Can I have a slice of foam?" It still smelled really good.
"It probably wouldn't be a good idea to put anything in your tanks before we start."
"That's too bad. It smells very good."
Tarn brandished his knife. "Don't pout. I'll let you try yourself later."
Alarm fluttered briefly in Overlord's chest, but it soon went away.
[* * * * *]
A form of cannibalism + vore (eating and eating)
[* * * * *]
This was ridiculous. This was ridiculous, and humiliating, and was probably going to get him killed. Crunched up, swallowed, and killed. Game over, end of the road. Chewed to death: what an epitaph.
Black Shadow peeked around the inside of Tarn's shoulder tread. One thing in Overlord's favor: he definitely wasn't here for the company tonight. Staring at Tarn evenly, he laid back on the berth and spread his legs. That wasn't a view Black Shadow had ever realized he needed in his life, but he stared avidly. He knew that look, strange though this angle and, uh, exposure was. Overlord was tense, but it was a toss-up between anticipation of what might come and dread of the same.
Sort of how Black Shadow felt at the moment.
Tarn knelt, purring something to the taller mech on the berth in that low, dark voice. Black Shadow's wings rose as a thrill went through his own spark. Nice. Overlord took in a deep breath as pleasure stirred, but then Tarn was between the mech's thighs. One hand went to the panel already waiting, hot, and it slid back. Moist heat wafted into Tarn's mask, rich and heady.
Black Shadow inhaled and fidgeted. Also nice. So far, so good.
He looked up as Tarn turned his head to peer at the tiny-fied Phase Sixer hiding on his shoulder. "Eager, are we?" His free hand rose to pluck the little mech free, keeping the motion relaxed as to not alert Overlord. The slow, tormenting tease of fingers on the rim of Overlord's valve probably helped with that. Overlord was plenty distracted.
"No peeking," Tarn sing-songed at the reclining mech. Overlord started to snap a reply only to grunt, interrupted by a few fingers pressing inward.
The purple Decepticon mask clicked. Black Shadow would have tried to memorize the face underneath, but he couldn't seem to look away from the mouth alone. Scarred lips parted. Oh, Primus, they were really going to do this!
He squeezed his optics shut as he was brought to parted lips. Crunch time.
Except there was no crunch. Soft, pliant mechanisms surrounded him, the microscopic joints of facial plating astonishingly flexible as Tarn's lips closed around his lower body. A comparatively huge object nudged between his legs, and Black Shadow's optics popped open, paling in shock. Wet, rippling pressure slid around his legs. Tarn's tongue curved, cradling him in the center. It bulged up a second later, dragging up between his legs and laving his whole lower body in moving, liquid heat and pressure. One lick was enough to activate most of his nervous system. Black Shadow's pleasure sensors lit up in electric shocks under his plating, flashing like pop rocks in Tarn's mouth.
Oooo. Okay, this? Put this in the 'Nice' category, too.
Tarn chewed gently, hard teeth closing just enough to move the tiny Phase Sixer around. Black Shadow grabbed wildly for something to hold onto, but all he could do was go with the ride as tongue, lips, and teeth turned him about. The tongue between his legs suddenly lapped between his wings, then up his front, and he found himself lying on his front, feet spread to brace against the inside of Tarn's dental moulds. Metal flexed as the intake just behind him opened and closed in a swallow.
Oral fluid swished under Tarn's tongue. Right, because holding a squirmy little morsel in his mouth was probably causing him to salivate. That made sense. Freaky but natural side effect. He could deal with it. Black Shadow hugged Tarn's tongue and stared at the teeth just barely parted in front of his nose.
He wondered what he tasted like.
Tarn's voice heard from inside his mouth, by the way? Totally worth the chewing risk. Black Shadow's feet lost their footholds as the rumble and dip of soundwaves washing over him made his interface array snap open. His knees clamped around Tarn's tongue, and he whimpered, rutting against the wet, moving surface.
A vast chuckle answered the intent bitty humping, and Tarn opened his mouth wide. Black Shadow bit his lip and blinked in the light. He squinted, looking out.
Ah-ha. This had been why they'd come up with this plot in the first place. Overlord was expecting the best oral of his life. Tarn wanted to deliver. Black Shadow wanted in. It was a creepy plan all around, but right now, Black Shadow couldn't care how unnerved Overlord might be in the aftermath.
Tarn moved forward, tongue carrying the tiny mech along, and Black Shadow reached out with his hands at the same time he opened his own mouth. Eating on eating was a go; he repeated, eating on eating was a go.
[* * * * *]
vore
[* * * * *]
One thing nobody ever said about being eaten alive: it was a fragging rollercoaster.
He splashed into the primary fuel tank screeching in excitement. Low fuel levels meant he went under but popped up a moment later, whooping. Pink energon sloshed everywhere as his wings popped loose, finally freed from the tight confines of intake tubing. The intake itself had held him powerless while Overlord choked on him, sputtering and complaining about all the sharp angles, but he'd gotten down. Repeated swallowing had wriggled him free, although it'd taken a while. Then had come the full-body massage of rubbery tubing bracketed by machinery meant to move liquids and well-masticated solids down into the processing tanks. Everywhere, from every angle, warm, stretchy tubing had rubbed over him. He'd been smothered in kneading and felt up all over, turned around and around and pushed down down down until he fell free.
Rollercoaster. Yeah.
Black Shadow grinned and waded toward the nearest wall, avoiding the suction pulling fuel down in the center of the tank. That would take him toward the processing center. He didn't want to go there. Instead, he pounded on the wall of the tank. "I made it!"
The loudest yelling his tiny-fied form could produce was more like a squeak, but Overlord was supposed to be listening for him.
A dull, hollow reverberation answered him as finger tapped a reply.
"I want to do it again!"
[* * * * *]