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kinkfestTitle: The Perils of Starscream
Author: Apathy
Rating: NC-17.
Warnings: It's giant evil gay robot tentacle porn. Deeply, deeply silly giant evil gay robot tentacle porn. Do the maths.
Word count: 5179.
Prompt: Starscream/other: D/s, tentacles, being held up on display - "Don't even think about it!"
Summary: Five encounters of the tentacled kind.
A/N: Ahahahaha. Almost a month late. I. Um. First I fell victim to RL, and then I fell victim to chronic laziness. Woe. *has no excuse* I still have one prompt to go, but it shouldn't take nearly as long as this one, given that I'm guessing it'll be a whole lot shorter. (Bloody well better be.)
This is a five things fic, so you get many crack pairings. (This is what happens when the prompt only specifies 'other'. I can't whittle 'other' down to one character, damnit!)
Also, I totally still owe people responses to comments from ages ago. I haven't forgotten, I swear! *gets lazy arse in gear*
1.
Volunteering to help Megatron with an experiment is never a good idea. He's well aware of this.
And yet, here he is.
Granted, "volunteer" is probably too strong a word. "Threatened with excruciatingly slow and painful deactivation in front of the entire army if he doesn't comply" would come closer to the truth of the situation.
His oh-so-highly-esteemed leader still hasn't told him just what he's volunteered for. Not that this is a surprise -- Megatron in mad scientist mode likes to toy with his victims first, especially when said victim is a certain Air Commander. It's one of his few admirable traits, provided that it's someone other than Starscream on the receiving end.
Right now, though, Starscream is tired and cranky, and there's a cube of high-grade with his name on it waiting in his quarters. Well, technically it has Megatron's name on it -- stamped in big black letters and followed by very specific and painful-sounding death threats -- but he's sure Megatron won't miss it.
'Megatrooon.'
Megatron continues fiddling with the console before him, not bothering to look around. 'Quiet, fool.'
He huffs, sticking his hands on his hips. 'Well, don't come crying to me when the place gets trashed because I'm too busy being stuck in the lab with some maniac. Remember what happened the last time you left Skywarp in charge? We were finding bits of Cassetticon around the base for weeks.' He must admit, he was sad to have missed that particular party. The cassette-tape streamers strung along the ceiling had been a nice touch.
Megatron twitches, but doesn't rise to the bait. 'As soon as Soundwave is out of repairs, he will take over.'
'Oh, joyous day. Honestly, Megatron, I don't know where you got your officers from, but you should really see about getting a refund -- urk!'
The world is suddenly a whole lot less right-way-up than it was a moment ago, and there's a crushing pressure around his lower half. He brings his null rays to the ready out of sheer instinct, but before he can fire, they're plucked from his arms by... something. Only the need to save face in front of Megatron keeps him from full-blown panic. He settles for minor panic with just a hint of scorn.
'What the slag is going on?!'
He finds himself being lifted in a most undignified manner, until his head is level with that of Megatron. He's so close that he can feel the heat radiating off him, and Starscream's been around long enough to know that that's never a good sign.
Especially when Megatron is smiling, like he is right now. Maybe it's just the whole upside-down thing throwing off his perception, but Starscream cannot read that smile at all, and it worries him deeply. Megatron has many smiles, implying many different kinds of impending doom, but Starscream's pretty slagging certain he hasn't seen this one before.
'Um... Megatron?'
'For once, Starscream, you and I agree on something.'
'Huh?'
'You're right -- my officers are, shall we say, lacking.' Megatron's voice is rich with amusement, and oh slag, so not a good sign. He attempts to loosen his bonds, but whatever they are, they're not about to let go in a hurry. In fact, they've worked their way up his torso.
'So, I've decided to do a little something about it. Behold!' He flips a switch on some kind of control he's holding in his hand, and the lights brighten -- fragging drama queen -- and whatever it is that's around him constricts.
'I'd like to introduce you to the Robo-Smasher, Mark II.'
Starscream shifts awkwardly. 'But... I'm already a Decepticon!'
Megatron's grin shifts even wider, if possible.
Oh, he is so slagging dead.
'That, my dear Starscream, is why I've changed the design. The Mark II turns pre-existing Decepticons into loyal, trustworthy Decepticons.'
'Trustworthy Decepticons? I thought such a thing was impossible by definition.' Being dangled upside-down by giant robotic tentacles makes him grumpy. So sue him.
'Silence!' He finds himself abruptly dropped on his head, before being yanked up again. 'Ah, that's better. Now, as I was saying: I am in need of some loyal officers, and you, Starscream, are fortunate enough to be the first volunteer. Unless you can think of some reason as to why I should put up with your treacherous ways for Primus knows how many more millennia?'
'Oh, don't worry, Mighty Megatron -- it won't take nearly that long for me to overthrow you.' The response is reflex, and he resigns himself to taking a blast from Megatron's cannon before the words are even out of his mouth.
The expected pain doesn't eventuate; instead, the coils tighten, scraping vulnerable wing surfaces and restricting energon flow. He clamps his jaw tight, willing himself not to let any sound escape.
'Want to try again?'
'You... need me.' The pressure has made it to his vocaliser; it takes all his willpower to force the words out through the pain. Lucky for him, he's had plenty of practice at it. 'Who else is going to... point out all your stupid tactical errors? You'd be dead... a thousand times over... if it weren't for me.'
'And I'd be dead a million times over if you'd ever actually been smart enough to succeed in any of your petty little assassination attempts.'
Despite his words, Megatron doesn't appear all that concerned about activating the Robo-Smasher's re-programming function; he seems more interested in seeing all the entertaining positions he can make Starscream contort into. Starscream grimaces as one of his wings is bent back almost ninety degrees to its usual.
'If I'd known you had... a tentacle rapebot fetish... I never would've enlisted.'
He'd thought he muttered it too quietly for Megatron to hear, but obviously not, because suddenly there's one of the things in his mouth, worming its way down towards his energon processor, and augh, Megatron is more scrapped in the head than he'd ever imagined. He gags helplessly, and wonders just where he went wrong in his life.
And he's certainly not annoyed that he didn't think of building an unholy tentacle monster first.
He squirms irritably and does his best to let loose a stream of invective, hoping to convey at least the general sense of just how much he wants Megatron to die right now.
'Oh, I think I could get used to this, Starscream.' Megatron laughs, and Starscream can smell the energon on his breath. Oh, it's going to be a long evening.
He sighs inwardly, and resigns himself to missing yet another one of Skywarp's brief stints as leader. Pity. He'd heard that there was going to be a round of Pin the Numberplate on the Autobot Prisoner.
2.
He doesn't know whether to scream in outrage or burst out laughing.
He decides to opt for the former when one of the flailing appendages somehow actually manages to wrap itself around his waist, hoisting him up for Decepticon and Autobot alike to view and mock at leisure. Brilliant.
He does a pretty good job of it, too, if he does say so himself, bringing out some of the more inventive imprecations he thought up during his last oh-so-boring stint in the brig. Keep them off-balance, and strike while they're distracted.
Or at least go down in style, anyway.
Wheeljack actually sounds apologetic, the idiot, as he fumbles desperately with the controls in his hand. The Autobot's body is jerked and whipped around by his newest invention, waist encircled by an eight-legged contraption Starscream's pretty sure infringes some sort of fleshie copyright.
'There, think that's got it -- oops....'
Starscream rolls his optics to the heavens. Really, this is just embarrassing for all concerned.
If you want something done right....
With a sigh, he raises his left arm and fires off a few blasts of his null ray. Autodork and freakish tentacle monstrosity go down in a juddering heap, and Starscream is dumped unceremoniously in the dirt. Mustering all of his dignity, he clambers to his feet and prises the quivering appendage from around his midsection. Laughter and catcalls drift over on the breeze.
Hmph.
Dusting himself off, he approaches the Autobot imbecile, who has collapsed into a sad puddle on the ground. He nudges the Autobot with his foot. The Autobot groans and twitches. Definitely not getting up any time soon.
Starscream kicks him in the side a few times for good measure and stalks off, pointedly ignoring the jeers of his fellow Decepticons.
3.
There are many lengths he is willing to go to in order to further the gathering of knowledge.
Having his innermost circuitry invaded by slimy organic appendages, he reflects as he dangles helplessly in midair, is not one of them.
He attempts to extricate himself, but they just wrap tighter and invade deeper. Both his arms and one of his legs are hopelessly entangled, and he squirms uncomfortably as a tendril worms its ticklish way perilously close to vital systems. He notes with alarm that his thrusters are paralysed, denying him his one last possible avenue of escape not involving complete and utter humiliation.
There's nothing for it, then, but to stoop to asking for help. And to summon enough arrogant aftholitude to keep his pride from falling to teeny-tiny pieces.
Bit late for that, really.
He clears his throat loudly. Pointedly.
'Hmm?'
His partner doesn't even look up from the small, four-headed creature he's examining with great interest, enormous frame hunkered down in a vaguely ridiculous manner as he attempts to view the xeno-organic as closely as possible. Starscream huffs in exasperation. Typical Skyfire. Primus-forsaken tentacle sexbeast looming up right behind him, and he's too engrossed in cataloguing some fuzzy organic to even notice.
Starscream fervently believes that his situation is just a tad more urgent. His dignity is on the line! His honour!
'Skyfire!'
'I will be just a few moments, Starscream.' It's that same serene, unhurried tone that is so Skyfire, and while normally Starscream finds it inexplicably endearing, right now, it's just really slagging infuriating. Tentacles! In his circuits! Hel-lo!
He pulls capacity air into his intakes, and sets his vocaliser to maximum screech.
'GET YOUR SORRY SLAGGING AFT RIGHT THE FRAG OVER HERE RIGHT FRAGGING NOW, OR I SWEAR TO PRIMUS AND ALL THAT'S HOLY THAT I WILL END YOU!'
There. That ought to do it.
Skyfire doesn't even jump at the outburst, instead taking his sweet fragging time and observing the xeno-organic for a few nano-kliks longer. With a sigh, he pulls himself to his feet. And turns.
And stares.
Starscream waggles the fingers of his one free hand. 'Little help?'
Skyfire continues to stare. Normally, Starscream would relish the rather monumental achievement that is managing to flummox his unflappable friend, but right now, he has more important things on his mind. Or, more accurately, in his every nook, cranny, and crevice, as well as places he didn't even know he had, boldly going where he's pretty fragging sure nothing has gone before, and will slagging well never go again.
The tentacles discover Starscream's exhaust vents. Starscream's expression turns decidedly sour.
'Are your audials malfunctioning? Get me down from here!'
That seems to snap Skyfire out of his daze, but not entirely in the way that Starscream had hoped. The larger mech's mouth twitches with barely-suppressed humour, his optics glinting in amusement.
Starscream would point an accusatory finger at him, if he could. As it is, he settles for thrashing about helplessly.
'You're enjoying this! Stop it!'
Skyfire snickers rudely -- Starscream hadn't even known he was capable of that -- and un-subspaces his field recorder.
Oh.
Oh, slag no.
'No! Don't you dare!'
Skyfire lifts the recorder to optic level, his feeble attempts at a professional air sabotaged by the occasional treacherous giggle.
Starscream's voice rises a full octave. 'Don't you even think about it!'
He struggles against his bonds, but is now completely immobile.
Oh, slag. Slag, slag, slaggity slagging slaggy slag....
Skyfire starts the recording process, and Starscream takes a moment to regret the fact that Skyfire won't survive ten nano-kliks once he manages to get free. A pity. Good research partners are hard to come by. Good research partners who are capable of performing two-way feedback-looped interface just how Starscream prefers it, doubly so.
Oh, well.
Tentacles. Tentacles in his engines.
He writhes, trying to escape the crawling sensation spreading all through his systems, but even he isn't fast enough to escape a foe that has set up shop inside his own body. He groans, cursing his traitorous vocaliser, and the even more traitorous part of him that's actually enjoying this.
Skyfire is shaking so hard he can barely keep the recorder steady. Starscream levels his most disdainful glare at him. It is a glare that has kept many an unruly undergrad in their proper place. It is a glare that has cowed even the most cantankerous of senior professors.
It is a glare that lasts precisely 0.712375 nano-kliks, before he throws his head back in something that is most definitely not ecstasy, nosiree.
But it got his point across loud and clear, he's certain.
Skyfire, for his part, comes closer.
Skyfire, for his part, is narrating his own disturbing little pornographic nature documentary.
'The specimen displays... heh... excuse me, displays heightened defensive mechanisms, which indicates... ahahaha....'
Starscream scrapes together what little remains of his language programming. 'Stop it!'
'Oh, Primus. This is going straight to our thesis.'
'You kinkglitched freak!' He jerks futilely at his bonds for the millionth time. 'Get! Me! Down!'
Somehow, Skyfire manages to take bioscans of the disgusting tentacled thing, while still recording reasonably steadily and carrying on a conversation. Stupid coherent multi-tasking bastard. Starscream just tries to remember how to form actual words.
'Now!'
'Why, Starscream. What ever happened to your scientific curiosity?'
Something shifts inside him. He whimpers. Oh, Primus, what is this thing doing to him --
'Frag scientific curiosity! You -- you're not the one with happy-happy alien tentacles making themselves at h-h-h-h-h-h... haaah... nnn!... home in unspeakable puh... puh... places!'
Skyfire tuts. 'Really, Starscream. What better way to learn about this planet's species than to observe them in action?'
'On their own kind! We don't belon -- aagh!' Tendrils tighten around over-sensitive wings. One quests its way into one of his null ray cannons.
Nnnnnnngh.
'You're in no danger.' How does that slagger stay so calm?
'They're clogging my air intakes! They're getting into -- gah -- my vital systems!' Death via prolonged and excruciating humiliation is also very much a possibility.
Skyfire shrugs, examining his readouts. 'Well, then, you might want to stop fighting it, so it can hurry up and do its thing.'
'Its thing?! You want to l-l-let it mate with me? Maybe it's the sceptic in me s-speaking, but I do believe that we are not compatibaaaaagh... aaaah....'
'Huh.'
'Huh?!'
Skyfire scrutinises the readouts more closely. 'It looks like they secrete a combination of chemicals -- '
'Oh, wonderful.'
' -- That are toxic to organic beings -- '
'Even better! Gaaaah.'
' -- But which have an entirely, ah, different effect upon robotic life.'
Skyfire's voice has turned decidedly odd; the recorder dangles, forgotten, at his side. Starscream eyes him suspiciously.
'You're saying that....'
Skyfire runs a fingertip slowly along one of the tentacles, and holds his hand before his optics, examining it carefully. The greyish ooze bleeds down into the joints of his hand.
Starscream wants to scream at him, let him know just how slagging stupid it is to have the both of them contaminated. But....
Maybe it's the alien tentacle aphrodisiac talking, but Skyfire does look awfully attractive right now, all concentration and curiosity and plotting. Starscream knows Skyfire's plotting face. He likes it when Skyfire plots. He likes it a lot. It leads to Good Things.
He grins, despite himself. 'P-pervert.'
'I'm a serious scientist, Starscream. This is a serious study.' Skyfire's optics glitter; Starscream can hear his intakes begin to cycle faster. 'I'm simply being... thorough.'
'Thoroughly perverted.' His tone is approving, his smile wicked. Dimly, he notes that he's been lifted to Skyfire's head height. Helpful. He tries not to think too hard about what possible motivations a tentacled porn plant could have for that. 'I wish to hear more about your... mmm... theories on this plant.'
Skyfire shakes his head sadly. 'You're much too distracting. Always jumping in with your own ideas.'
He would shrug, if he could. 'So, shut me up. For science.'
'For science,' Skyfire murmurs, leaning in and kissing him with maddening gentleness. Starscream struggles, tries to deepen it, but Skyfire is obviously having way too much fun making him suffer.
'Y'know,' he mumbles against Skyfire's lips, 'I think science also demands that you fully document your findings.'
Without disengaging, Skyfire reaches out blindly and attaches the recorder to a nearby tree branch. Starscream snickers helplessly, and Skyfire draws back a little, giving him a chiding look.
'... Shutting up, now.'
'Better.' Skyfire picks up where he left off.
'Mmph... does science mind inarticulate noises?'
Skyfire pretends to consider the question. 'I think they are acceptable, yes.'
'What about screaming to Primus?'
Skyfire's optics narrow into that devious look that he so rarely allows. The one that never fails to make Starscream's circuits overload. Starscream shivers.
'I guess we'll just have to find out.'
4.
'Do I even want to know where you got this pile of scrap from?'
Swindle's smile oozes with all the greasy, fake sincerity of a second-hand parts salesman. 'I doubt it.'
Starscream eyes the machine with a mixture of disdain and interest, only half-listening to Swindle's spiel. The Tentaclon 3000, top of the range, remote-controlled, easy to disassemble and transport, blah, blah, blah....
The only thing he really cares about is whether it will provide the utmost in pain and humiliation to a certain leader of his. If Swindle's expression is anything to go by, the Combaticon knows exactly what he's thinking, but is savvy enough not to say it directly. Good for him. If he keeps it up, he might even be allowed to leave this negotiation in one piece.
He holds up a hand. 'All well and good, Swindle. But I'm not even going to think about it until I have proof that it works.'
A couple of nano-kliks later, Starscream groggily tries to recover from the shock of finding himself pinned to the wall by at least a dozen different tentacles. Swindle grins at him in a thoroughly unnerving fashion.
He concedes that occasionally, just occasionally, he could probably do to think things through a little longer before opening his mouth.
5.
'You got a tentacle monster to guard your base?!'
The Autobot leans back against the rock face, forced casual attitude unable to completely conceal the care he takes positioning himself. 'First, it's not a monster -- it's a machine. And second, do you really think that we're stupid enough to leave the front door to the Ark wide open without some sort of defence system?'
Despite his predicament -- one which has become depressingly familiar over the deca-cycles -- he smirks. 'It never seemed to worry you morons before. If Laserbeak spent any more time here, he'd be paying rent.'
The deeply irritating blue one thinks on this for long moments, before finally giving in. 'Okay, I'll give you that. But now we've created a foolproof method of covering the entrance, as you have so generously demonstrated.'
'Who, me? No, I was just out for a pleasant afternoon stroll, happened to be in the neighbourhood, thought I'd drop by.' He harrumphs. 'Autobot hospitality leaves a lot to be desired.'
Tracks inspects the condition of one of his arms critically, angling it so that it gives off the maximum amount of shine. He pulls a cloth out of subspace and gives it a quick buff. 'Oh, and I suppose you Decepticons would do it so much better.'
Starscream doesn't even bother to keep the smugness out of his voice. 'Of course. We have the good sense to get right down to business, rather than boring our prisoners to death with idle chit-chat. Honestly, I thought you Autobots disapproved of torture, but now that I have to hang around here and put up with you and your stupid self-obsessed neuroses, I'm not so sure.'
The ludicrous red face twists into a scowl. Primus, sometimes it's almost too easy. 'Says the 'Con who got taken out by Bumblebee because he was too busy preening.'
'I WAS NOT!'
Tracks raises an optic ridge, and Starscream forces himself to calm down. 'It was merely a diversionary tactic.'
'Of course.'
'By allowing myself to be attacked by Bumblebee, it was possible for the others to make it past the ridge he was guarding.' He's almost convincing himself of it. Damn, he's good.
'Don't doubt it.' The little blue twerp has moved on to the other arm. He's not even looking at Starscream!
'It was a brilliant piece of strategy!'
'I'm sure it was.'
'Is it my fault that the rest of the Decepticons were too stupid to follow the plan, making my brave sacrifice in vain?'
Tracks tuts and shakes his head at the sheer injustice of it all, and starts cleaning his windows. Starscream twitches, and forces his optics elsewhere.
'Are you going to leave me up here all day? Some of us have more important things to do than sit around and polish ourselves, you know.'
'Oh, how dreadfully remiss of me.' Tracks makes a move to speak into his comm. 'I'll just call Sideswipe and Sunstreaker to come get you down -- '
'I can wait!'
Afthole.
Slightly uncomfortable silence descends. Tracks goes back to his polishing, while Starscream inspects his current prison, trying to forget about the fact that the Autobots are almost certainly watching him over the surveillance cameras.
His bonds are surprisingly well-made: strong, with an ingenious grasping mechanism. Of course, this is to be expected, given that no second-rate contraption could hold Starscream for any extended period of time. Slag, he fully expects to work his way out of this particular trap, too.
Just as soon as he works it out. Any moment, now.
'Good workmanship,' he says grudgingly.
Tracks glances up. 'I guess you'd know.'
Starscream looks at him curiously, and the Autobot shrugs. 'We hear... stories.'
He decides not to dignify that with a response, and switches tacks. 'Let me guess: Wheeljack.'
'Actually, this one was mostly Perceptor.'
He blinks, and tries to unthink the mental images that rise up, unbidden. 'Huh. Never knew he had it in him.'
'Believe me, if it had been Wheeljack, you wouldn't find me within a megamile of this thing. The freshly-exploded look is so last season.'
Starscream snickers despite himself, and Tracks smiles reluctantly.
Time to try again. 'So... what's the plan?'
'I haven't decided, yet.'
'You're going to just leave me strung up here until you decide what to do with me?'
'More or less.' Tracks fakes a yawn. Slagging Autobots and their stupid squishy habits.
Fine. Two can play at this. 'I knew you couldn't resist me.'
That gets a reaction, although Tracks quickly moves to affect an air of disgust. 'In your twisted recharge fantasies, Decepticreep.'
'Why else would you keep me here, all tied up and helpless, without reporting it to Optimus?' He leers. 'Admit it: you want me.'
'Hardly. Just think of this as payback for the Dancitron.'
'Oh, like you weren't enjoying every moment of that.'
Tracks pushes himself off the rock wall, stalking over to Starscream and yanking him down until they're face-to-face. 'You wish, deviant.'
'I know it, you pompous twit.'
Tracks growls. 'You're confusing fantasy and reality again, you perverted wretch.'
Now, this is more like it. He may be bound tighter than a misertron's subspace strings, but as long as they're throwing petty insults instead of punches, he has the advantage. No-one out-bickers Starscream, King of the Comeback, Sultan of the Slur!
He decides to start out easy. 'Aft-headed buffoon.'
'Degenerate freak.'
'Vainglorious dolt.'
'Uncouth sycophant.'
Starscream grins, sensing imminent victory. He lowers his voice, forcing Tracks to lean forwards in order to hear him. 'Seeker wannabe.'
Tracks's wings positively quiver, his face contorting in fury. He doesn't actually look too bad, like this. He could make a half-decent 'Con... if he weren't such a whiny, conceited brat. And if he didn't have such a useless, ugly alt-mode. And the voice -- talk about grating and uncultured. Ick.
Tracks practically spits the words at him. 'Megatron's bitch.'
Starscream's jaw drops. Without thinking, he tries to lunge forwards, to wrap his hands around that glitching slagheap's neck and throttle, but finds himself held fast, straining mindlessly against his bonds. 'You -- you -- '
'I what, Starscream? Am absolutely right, as always?' The rage has disappeared as fast as it came, and Tracks tilts Starscream's chin up with one finger until the Seeker has no choice but to look him in the optic. Starscream attempts to bite his fragging hand off, but the tentacles pull him up short. 'Well, naturally.'
Starscream sputters less than coherently. A detached part of his mind reflects that this is probably not his finest moment, but the rest of him really doesn't slagging care. Especially given that that fragging stuck-up shiny Autoscum aftface is smirking at him, getting right up in his personal space. It's not nearly as fun when someone else is the one doing it.
'Let me down!'
'Temper, temper.' Tracks runs the tip of his black beam gun along Starscream's jaw. Hardly lethal, but right now, Starscream thinks that death would be preferable.
'KILL YOU!'
'No need to be rude, especially when we've decided to accede to your demands.'
'DIE, YOU -- huh?'
'You said that your people like to get down to business. Well, we here at the Autobot Hilton are going to make you feel right at home with some good old-fashioned Decepticon-style hospitality.'
'... You are?' An uneasy feeling begins to creep into his energon pump.
'Normally we wouldn't do such a thing, but we're going to make an exception for you. We do so try to please our guests.'
He tries to work one hand free. When that doesn't succeed, he turns to his old failsafe: mindless babble. 'Uh... you know what? I've changed my mind. Hospitality is overrated. Not that I haven't enjoyed my stay, but I'd like to check out early, if it's all the same to you. People to kill, things to annihilate, you know how it is....'
'Well, that's too bad,' Tracks purrs. 'Because we can't just let you go.'
The gun barrel meanders its way down his throat, pressure increasing ever so slightly. He flinches.
'Of course,' Tracks murmurs, 'you could just accept Autobot hospitality, lacking though it may be.'
'What, tying up your foes in kinky contraptions and then giving them Primus's own buff-and-polish show?'
One day, he'll get the Constructicons to check whether his vocaliser actually is connected to his CPU.
'... Not that I was enjoying it in the slightest, you pervert.'
'Of course not.' Tracks is making no effort to contain his merriment.
'Now who's the one with the messed-up fantasies?'
'I think you've already demonstrated the answer to that one.'
Tracks twirls his polishing cloth on the end of one finger, and Starscream can see him calculating just how he's going to make Starscream suffer, all the many creative ways he's going to make sure that Starscream is reminded all about it every time they encounter each other in the future. And making sure that all the Decepticons know about it, too.
Death would be better. He knows this. And yet, as always, he just has to take the path of most masochism.
Tracks clears his vocaliser, clearly still amused. 'If you really want to do things the Autobot way, I guess we can manage that.'
Starscream tries to disguise his relief... and, he guesses, probably fails spectacularly.
'If you're going to receive Autobot hospitality, you'll have to play by Autobot standards. And part of the Autobot way is giving credit where credit's due.'
And with sudden, horrible certainty, he can tell what's coming. Oh, Primus no. Not that.
'Who's the most gorgeous, brave, sophisticated, swoon-worthy Transformer of them all?'
'Oh, come on!'
The slagging little scummy petroweaselly fragger just gives him that maddening raised optic ridge.
'Never!'
Nothing.
'Your overblown ego astounds even me.'
Still nothing.
'Doesn't lying go against your precious Autobot code?'
Tracks idly examines the finish on his gun.
'GNYARGH!'
Tracks idly examines the finish on his missiles.
He narrows his optics. 'Fine! You're the prettiest princess in all the land.'
Tracks smiles his infuriating smile. 'Not bad, for a beginner. You'll have to work on it, though.' However, he carefully sits himself down, and starts working ever so slowly on his legs.
Starscream groans and hangs his head, but can't bring himself to completely tear his optics from the show that, Primus willing, is about to unfold before him. If he's going to die of humiliation, he might as well have a little fun before he goes.
Dignity is overrated, anyway.
DVD Bonus Extra
Outside, the dull clang of familiar footsteps comes to a halt, twin slices of shadow beneath the door betraying the location of the footsteps' owner.
Inside, he crouches in the dark, remote control in hand, energon pump hammering in anticipation. His optics are dimmed and shielded, giving off minimal light. Beside him, the Tentaclon 3000 awaits his command.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the door slides open, revealing an imposing silhouette and unreadable red gaze. The figure enters the quarters, stride slow but firm.
At last -- !
Starscream shivers, barely able to contain his glee. Megatron is almost in range. So close, now....
He lifts a trembling finger to the remote, ready to wreak all sorts of really nasty revenge. Megatron is going to get a taste of his own lube job, oh yes....
A giggle slips out despite his best efforts, and it sounds considerably less than sane, even to his own audials. Quickly, he pushes the button marked Capture, and turns the dial up to Even Primus Can't Help You Now, Bucko.
And waits.
And waits.
He pushes the button again, harder this time.
Nothing.
He stabs at the controls, utilising the time-honoured method of Keep Pressing the Same Button Really Hard and It'll Magically Start Working. So caught up is he in his efforts that he doesn't fully register the growing pressure around his ankle, until he suddenly notices that the world is a whole lot more upside-down than it should probably be.
Again.
Primus fragging damn it.
Megatron strolls over with leisurely, predatorial ease, holding up his own remote control for Starscream to see and shaking his head in mock regret. Slagging Swindle. Exactly why had he trusted him, again?
The door slams shut, and Starscream finds himself optic-to-upside-down-optic with a very, very amused Megatron.
'... Oh, slag.'
Author: Apathy
Rating: NC-17.
Warnings: It's giant evil gay robot tentacle porn. Deeply, deeply silly giant evil gay robot tentacle porn. Do the maths.
Word count: 5179.
Prompt: Starscream/other: D/s, tentacles, being held up on display - "Don't even think about it!"
Summary: Five encounters of the tentacled kind.
A/N: Ahahahaha. Almost a month late. I. Um. First I fell victim to RL, and then I fell victim to chronic laziness. Woe. *has no excuse* I still have one prompt to go, but it shouldn't take nearly as long as this one, given that I'm guessing it'll be a whole lot shorter. (Bloody well better be.)
This is a five things fic, so you get many crack pairings. (This is what happens when the prompt only specifies 'other'. I can't whittle 'other' down to one character, damnit!)
Also, I totally still owe people responses to comments from ages ago. I haven't forgotten, I swear! *gets lazy arse in gear*
1.
Volunteering to help Megatron with an experiment is never a good idea. He's well aware of this.
And yet, here he is.
Granted, "volunteer" is probably too strong a word. "Threatened with excruciatingly slow and painful deactivation in front of the entire army if he doesn't comply" would come closer to the truth of the situation.
His oh-so-highly-esteemed leader still hasn't told him just what he's volunteered for. Not that this is a surprise -- Megatron in mad scientist mode likes to toy with his victims first, especially when said victim is a certain Air Commander. It's one of his few admirable traits, provided that it's someone other than Starscream on the receiving end.
Right now, though, Starscream is tired and cranky, and there's a cube of high-grade with his name on it waiting in his quarters. Well, technically it has Megatron's name on it -- stamped in big black letters and followed by very specific and painful-sounding death threats -- but he's sure Megatron won't miss it.
'Megatrooon.'
Megatron continues fiddling with the console before him, not bothering to look around. 'Quiet, fool.'
He huffs, sticking his hands on his hips. 'Well, don't come crying to me when the place gets trashed because I'm too busy being stuck in the lab with some maniac. Remember what happened the last time you left Skywarp in charge? We were finding bits of Cassetticon around the base for weeks.' He must admit, he was sad to have missed that particular party. The cassette-tape streamers strung along the ceiling had been a nice touch.
Megatron twitches, but doesn't rise to the bait. 'As soon as Soundwave is out of repairs, he will take over.'
'Oh, joyous day. Honestly, Megatron, I don't know where you got your officers from, but you should really see about getting a refund -- urk!'
The world is suddenly a whole lot less right-way-up than it was a moment ago, and there's a crushing pressure around his lower half. He brings his null rays to the ready out of sheer instinct, but before he can fire, they're plucked from his arms by... something. Only the need to save face in front of Megatron keeps him from full-blown panic. He settles for minor panic with just a hint of scorn.
'What the slag is going on?!'
He finds himself being lifted in a most undignified manner, until his head is level with that of Megatron. He's so close that he can feel the heat radiating off him, and Starscream's been around long enough to know that that's never a good sign.
Especially when Megatron is smiling, like he is right now. Maybe it's just the whole upside-down thing throwing off his perception, but Starscream cannot read that smile at all, and it worries him deeply. Megatron has many smiles, implying many different kinds of impending doom, but Starscream's pretty slagging certain he hasn't seen this one before.
'Um... Megatron?'
'For once, Starscream, you and I agree on something.'
'Huh?'
'You're right -- my officers are, shall we say, lacking.' Megatron's voice is rich with amusement, and oh slag, so not a good sign. He attempts to loosen his bonds, but whatever they are, they're not about to let go in a hurry. In fact, they've worked their way up his torso.
'So, I've decided to do a little something about it. Behold!' He flips a switch on some kind of control he's holding in his hand, and the lights brighten -- fragging drama queen -- and whatever it is that's around him constricts.
'I'd like to introduce you to the Robo-Smasher, Mark II.'
Starscream shifts awkwardly. 'But... I'm already a Decepticon!'
Megatron's grin shifts even wider, if possible.
Oh, he is so slagging dead.
'That, my dear Starscream, is why I've changed the design. The Mark II turns pre-existing Decepticons into loyal, trustworthy Decepticons.'
'Trustworthy Decepticons? I thought such a thing was impossible by definition.' Being dangled upside-down by giant robotic tentacles makes him grumpy. So sue him.
'Silence!' He finds himself abruptly dropped on his head, before being yanked up again. 'Ah, that's better. Now, as I was saying: I am in need of some loyal officers, and you, Starscream, are fortunate enough to be the first volunteer. Unless you can think of some reason as to why I should put up with your treacherous ways for Primus knows how many more millennia?'
'Oh, don't worry, Mighty Megatron -- it won't take nearly that long for me to overthrow you.' The response is reflex, and he resigns himself to taking a blast from Megatron's cannon before the words are even out of his mouth.
The expected pain doesn't eventuate; instead, the coils tighten, scraping vulnerable wing surfaces and restricting energon flow. He clamps his jaw tight, willing himself not to let any sound escape.
'Want to try again?'
'You... need me.' The pressure has made it to his vocaliser; it takes all his willpower to force the words out through the pain. Lucky for him, he's had plenty of practice at it. 'Who else is going to... point out all your stupid tactical errors? You'd be dead... a thousand times over... if it weren't for me.'
'And I'd be dead a million times over if you'd ever actually been smart enough to succeed in any of your petty little assassination attempts.'
Despite his words, Megatron doesn't appear all that concerned about activating the Robo-Smasher's re-programming function; he seems more interested in seeing all the entertaining positions he can make Starscream contort into. Starscream grimaces as one of his wings is bent back almost ninety degrees to its usual.
'If I'd known you had... a tentacle rapebot fetish... I never would've enlisted.'
He'd thought he muttered it too quietly for Megatron to hear, but obviously not, because suddenly there's one of the things in his mouth, worming its way down towards his energon processor, and augh, Megatron is more scrapped in the head than he'd ever imagined. He gags helplessly, and wonders just where he went wrong in his life.
And he's certainly not annoyed that he didn't think of building an unholy tentacle monster first.
He squirms irritably and does his best to let loose a stream of invective, hoping to convey at least the general sense of just how much he wants Megatron to die right now.
'Oh, I think I could get used to this, Starscream.' Megatron laughs, and Starscream can smell the energon on his breath. Oh, it's going to be a long evening.
He sighs inwardly, and resigns himself to missing yet another one of Skywarp's brief stints as leader. Pity. He'd heard that there was going to be a round of Pin the Numberplate on the Autobot Prisoner.
2.
He doesn't know whether to scream in outrage or burst out laughing.
He decides to opt for the former when one of the flailing appendages somehow actually manages to wrap itself around his waist, hoisting him up for Decepticon and Autobot alike to view and mock at leisure. Brilliant.
He does a pretty good job of it, too, if he does say so himself, bringing out some of the more inventive imprecations he thought up during his last oh-so-boring stint in the brig. Keep them off-balance, and strike while they're distracted.
Or at least go down in style, anyway.
Wheeljack actually sounds apologetic, the idiot, as he fumbles desperately with the controls in his hand. The Autobot's body is jerked and whipped around by his newest invention, waist encircled by an eight-legged contraption Starscream's pretty sure infringes some sort of fleshie copyright.
'There, think that's got it -- oops....'
Starscream rolls his optics to the heavens. Really, this is just embarrassing for all concerned.
If you want something done right....
With a sigh, he raises his left arm and fires off a few blasts of his null ray. Autodork and freakish tentacle monstrosity go down in a juddering heap, and Starscream is dumped unceremoniously in the dirt. Mustering all of his dignity, he clambers to his feet and prises the quivering appendage from around his midsection. Laughter and catcalls drift over on the breeze.
Hmph.
Dusting himself off, he approaches the Autobot imbecile, who has collapsed into a sad puddle on the ground. He nudges the Autobot with his foot. The Autobot groans and twitches. Definitely not getting up any time soon.
Starscream kicks him in the side a few times for good measure and stalks off, pointedly ignoring the jeers of his fellow Decepticons.
3.
There are many lengths he is willing to go to in order to further the gathering of knowledge.
Having his innermost circuitry invaded by slimy organic appendages, he reflects as he dangles helplessly in midair, is not one of them.
He attempts to extricate himself, but they just wrap tighter and invade deeper. Both his arms and one of his legs are hopelessly entangled, and he squirms uncomfortably as a tendril worms its ticklish way perilously close to vital systems. He notes with alarm that his thrusters are paralysed, denying him his one last possible avenue of escape not involving complete and utter humiliation.
There's nothing for it, then, but to stoop to asking for help. And to summon enough arrogant aftholitude to keep his pride from falling to teeny-tiny pieces.
Bit late for that, really.
He clears his throat loudly. Pointedly.
'Hmm?'
His partner doesn't even look up from the small, four-headed creature he's examining with great interest, enormous frame hunkered down in a vaguely ridiculous manner as he attempts to view the xeno-organic as closely as possible. Starscream huffs in exasperation. Typical Skyfire. Primus-forsaken tentacle sexbeast looming up right behind him, and he's too engrossed in cataloguing some fuzzy organic to even notice.
Starscream fervently believes that his situation is just a tad more urgent. His dignity is on the line! His honour!
'Skyfire!'
'I will be just a few moments, Starscream.' It's that same serene, unhurried tone that is so Skyfire, and while normally Starscream finds it inexplicably endearing, right now, it's just really slagging infuriating. Tentacles! In his circuits! Hel-lo!
He pulls capacity air into his intakes, and sets his vocaliser to maximum screech.
'GET YOUR SORRY SLAGGING AFT RIGHT THE FRAG OVER HERE RIGHT FRAGGING NOW, OR I SWEAR TO PRIMUS AND ALL THAT'S HOLY THAT I WILL END YOU!'
There. That ought to do it.
Skyfire doesn't even jump at the outburst, instead taking his sweet fragging time and observing the xeno-organic for a few nano-kliks longer. With a sigh, he pulls himself to his feet. And turns.
And stares.
Starscream waggles the fingers of his one free hand. 'Little help?'
Skyfire continues to stare. Normally, Starscream would relish the rather monumental achievement that is managing to flummox his unflappable friend, but right now, he has more important things on his mind. Or, more accurately, in his every nook, cranny, and crevice, as well as places he didn't even know he had, boldly going where he's pretty fragging sure nothing has gone before, and will slagging well never go again.
The tentacles discover Starscream's exhaust vents. Starscream's expression turns decidedly sour.
'Are your audials malfunctioning? Get me down from here!'
That seems to snap Skyfire out of his daze, but not entirely in the way that Starscream had hoped. The larger mech's mouth twitches with barely-suppressed humour, his optics glinting in amusement.
Starscream would point an accusatory finger at him, if he could. As it is, he settles for thrashing about helplessly.
'You're enjoying this! Stop it!'
Skyfire snickers rudely -- Starscream hadn't even known he was capable of that -- and un-subspaces his field recorder.
Oh.
Oh, slag no.
'No! Don't you dare!'
Skyfire lifts the recorder to optic level, his feeble attempts at a professional air sabotaged by the occasional treacherous giggle.
Starscream's voice rises a full octave. 'Don't you even think about it!'
He struggles against his bonds, but is now completely immobile.
Oh, slag. Slag, slag, slaggity slagging slaggy slag....
Skyfire starts the recording process, and Starscream takes a moment to regret the fact that Skyfire won't survive ten nano-kliks once he manages to get free. A pity. Good research partners are hard to come by. Good research partners who are capable of performing two-way feedback-looped interface just how Starscream prefers it, doubly so.
Oh, well.
Tentacles. Tentacles in his engines.
He writhes, trying to escape the crawling sensation spreading all through his systems, but even he isn't fast enough to escape a foe that has set up shop inside his own body. He groans, cursing his traitorous vocaliser, and the even more traitorous part of him that's actually enjoying this.
Skyfire is shaking so hard he can barely keep the recorder steady. Starscream levels his most disdainful glare at him. It is a glare that has kept many an unruly undergrad in their proper place. It is a glare that has cowed even the most cantankerous of senior professors.
It is a glare that lasts precisely 0.712375 nano-kliks, before he throws his head back in something that is most definitely not ecstasy, nosiree.
But it got his point across loud and clear, he's certain.
Skyfire, for his part, comes closer.
Skyfire, for his part, is narrating his own disturbing little pornographic nature documentary.
'The specimen displays... heh... excuse me, displays heightened defensive mechanisms, which indicates... ahahaha....'
Starscream scrapes together what little remains of his language programming. 'Stop it!'
'Oh, Primus. This is going straight to our thesis.'
'You kinkglitched freak!' He jerks futilely at his bonds for the millionth time. 'Get! Me! Down!'
Somehow, Skyfire manages to take bioscans of the disgusting tentacled thing, while still recording reasonably steadily and carrying on a conversation. Stupid coherent multi-tasking bastard. Starscream just tries to remember how to form actual words.
'Now!'
'Why, Starscream. What ever happened to your scientific curiosity?'
Something shifts inside him. He whimpers. Oh, Primus, what is this thing doing to him --
'Frag scientific curiosity! You -- you're not the one with happy-happy alien tentacles making themselves at h-h-h-h-h-h... haaah... nnn!... home in unspeakable puh... puh... places!'
Skyfire tuts. 'Really, Starscream. What better way to learn about this planet's species than to observe them in action?'
'On their own kind! We don't belon -- aagh!' Tendrils tighten around over-sensitive wings. One quests its way into one of his null ray cannons.
Nnnnnnngh.
'You're in no danger.' How does that slagger stay so calm?
'They're clogging my air intakes! They're getting into -- gah -- my vital systems!' Death via prolonged and excruciating humiliation is also very much a possibility.
Skyfire shrugs, examining his readouts. 'Well, then, you might want to stop fighting it, so it can hurry up and do its thing.'
'Its thing?! You want to l-l-let it mate with me? Maybe it's the sceptic in me s-speaking, but I do believe that we are not compatibaaaaagh... aaaah....'
'Huh.'
'Huh?!'
Skyfire scrutinises the readouts more closely. 'It looks like they secrete a combination of chemicals -- '
'Oh, wonderful.'
' -- That are toxic to organic beings -- '
'Even better! Gaaaah.'
' -- But which have an entirely, ah, different effect upon robotic life.'
Skyfire's voice has turned decidedly odd; the recorder dangles, forgotten, at his side. Starscream eyes him suspiciously.
'You're saying that....'
Skyfire runs a fingertip slowly along one of the tentacles, and holds his hand before his optics, examining it carefully. The greyish ooze bleeds down into the joints of his hand.
Starscream wants to scream at him, let him know just how slagging stupid it is to have the both of them contaminated. But....
Maybe it's the alien tentacle aphrodisiac talking, but Skyfire does look awfully attractive right now, all concentration and curiosity and plotting. Starscream knows Skyfire's plotting face. He likes it when Skyfire plots. He likes it a lot. It leads to Good Things.
He grins, despite himself. 'P-pervert.'
'I'm a serious scientist, Starscream. This is a serious study.' Skyfire's optics glitter; Starscream can hear his intakes begin to cycle faster. 'I'm simply being... thorough.'
'Thoroughly perverted.' His tone is approving, his smile wicked. Dimly, he notes that he's been lifted to Skyfire's head height. Helpful. He tries not to think too hard about what possible motivations a tentacled porn plant could have for that. 'I wish to hear more about your... mmm... theories on this plant.'
Skyfire shakes his head sadly. 'You're much too distracting. Always jumping in with your own ideas.'
He would shrug, if he could. 'So, shut me up. For science.'
'For science,' Skyfire murmurs, leaning in and kissing him with maddening gentleness. Starscream struggles, tries to deepen it, but Skyfire is obviously having way too much fun making him suffer.
'Y'know,' he mumbles against Skyfire's lips, 'I think science also demands that you fully document your findings.'
Without disengaging, Skyfire reaches out blindly and attaches the recorder to a nearby tree branch. Starscream snickers helplessly, and Skyfire draws back a little, giving him a chiding look.
'... Shutting up, now.'
'Better.' Skyfire picks up where he left off.
'Mmph... does science mind inarticulate noises?'
Skyfire pretends to consider the question. 'I think they are acceptable, yes.'
'What about screaming to Primus?'
Skyfire's optics narrow into that devious look that he so rarely allows. The one that never fails to make Starscream's circuits overload. Starscream shivers.
'I guess we'll just have to find out.'
4.
'Do I even want to know where you got this pile of scrap from?'
Swindle's smile oozes with all the greasy, fake sincerity of a second-hand parts salesman. 'I doubt it.'
Starscream eyes the machine with a mixture of disdain and interest, only half-listening to Swindle's spiel. The Tentaclon 3000, top of the range, remote-controlled, easy to disassemble and transport, blah, blah, blah....
The only thing he really cares about is whether it will provide the utmost in pain and humiliation to a certain leader of his. If Swindle's expression is anything to go by, the Combaticon knows exactly what he's thinking, but is savvy enough not to say it directly. Good for him. If he keeps it up, he might even be allowed to leave this negotiation in one piece.
He holds up a hand. 'All well and good, Swindle. But I'm not even going to think about it until I have proof that it works.'
A couple of nano-kliks later, Starscream groggily tries to recover from the shock of finding himself pinned to the wall by at least a dozen different tentacles. Swindle grins at him in a thoroughly unnerving fashion.
He concedes that occasionally, just occasionally, he could probably do to think things through a little longer before opening his mouth.
5.
'You got a tentacle monster to guard your base?!'
The Autobot leans back against the rock face, forced casual attitude unable to completely conceal the care he takes positioning himself. 'First, it's not a monster -- it's a machine. And second, do you really think that we're stupid enough to leave the front door to the Ark wide open without some sort of defence system?'
Despite his predicament -- one which has become depressingly familiar over the deca-cycles -- he smirks. 'It never seemed to worry you morons before. If Laserbeak spent any more time here, he'd be paying rent.'
The deeply irritating blue one thinks on this for long moments, before finally giving in. 'Okay, I'll give you that. But now we've created a foolproof method of covering the entrance, as you have so generously demonstrated.'
'Who, me? No, I was just out for a pleasant afternoon stroll, happened to be in the neighbourhood, thought I'd drop by.' He harrumphs. 'Autobot hospitality leaves a lot to be desired.'
Tracks inspects the condition of one of his arms critically, angling it so that it gives off the maximum amount of shine. He pulls a cloth out of subspace and gives it a quick buff. 'Oh, and I suppose you Decepticons would do it so much better.'
Starscream doesn't even bother to keep the smugness out of his voice. 'Of course. We have the good sense to get right down to business, rather than boring our prisoners to death with idle chit-chat. Honestly, I thought you Autobots disapproved of torture, but now that I have to hang around here and put up with you and your stupid self-obsessed neuroses, I'm not so sure.'
The ludicrous red face twists into a scowl. Primus, sometimes it's almost too easy. 'Says the 'Con who got taken out by Bumblebee because he was too busy preening.'
'I WAS NOT!'
Tracks raises an optic ridge, and Starscream forces himself to calm down. 'It was merely a diversionary tactic.'
'Of course.'
'By allowing myself to be attacked by Bumblebee, it was possible for the others to make it past the ridge he was guarding.' He's almost convincing himself of it. Damn, he's good.
'Don't doubt it.' The little blue twerp has moved on to the other arm. He's not even looking at Starscream!
'It was a brilliant piece of strategy!'
'I'm sure it was.'
'Is it my fault that the rest of the Decepticons were too stupid to follow the plan, making my brave sacrifice in vain?'
Tracks tuts and shakes his head at the sheer injustice of it all, and starts cleaning his windows. Starscream twitches, and forces his optics elsewhere.
'Are you going to leave me up here all day? Some of us have more important things to do than sit around and polish ourselves, you know.'
'Oh, how dreadfully remiss of me.' Tracks makes a move to speak into his comm. 'I'll just call Sideswipe and Sunstreaker to come get you down -- '
'I can wait!'
Afthole.
Slightly uncomfortable silence descends. Tracks goes back to his polishing, while Starscream inspects his current prison, trying to forget about the fact that the Autobots are almost certainly watching him over the surveillance cameras.
His bonds are surprisingly well-made: strong, with an ingenious grasping mechanism. Of course, this is to be expected, given that no second-rate contraption could hold Starscream for any extended period of time. Slag, he fully expects to work his way out of this particular trap, too.
Just as soon as he works it out. Any moment, now.
'Good workmanship,' he says grudgingly.
Tracks glances up. 'I guess you'd know.'
Starscream looks at him curiously, and the Autobot shrugs. 'We hear... stories.'
He decides not to dignify that with a response, and switches tacks. 'Let me guess: Wheeljack.'
'Actually, this one was mostly Perceptor.'
He blinks, and tries to unthink the mental images that rise up, unbidden. 'Huh. Never knew he had it in him.'
'Believe me, if it had been Wheeljack, you wouldn't find me within a megamile of this thing. The freshly-exploded look is so last season.'
Starscream snickers despite himself, and Tracks smiles reluctantly.
Time to try again. 'So... what's the plan?'
'I haven't decided, yet.'
'You're going to just leave me strung up here until you decide what to do with me?'
'More or less.' Tracks fakes a yawn. Slagging Autobots and their stupid squishy habits.
Fine. Two can play at this. 'I knew you couldn't resist me.'
That gets a reaction, although Tracks quickly moves to affect an air of disgust. 'In your twisted recharge fantasies, Decepticreep.'
'Why else would you keep me here, all tied up and helpless, without reporting it to Optimus?' He leers. 'Admit it: you want me.'
'Hardly. Just think of this as payback for the Dancitron.'
'Oh, like you weren't enjoying every moment of that.'
Tracks pushes himself off the rock wall, stalking over to Starscream and yanking him down until they're face-to-face. 'You wish, deviant.'
'I know it, you pompous twit.'
Tracks growls. 'You're confusing fantasy and reality again, you perverted wretch.'
Now, this is more like it. He may be bound tighter than a misertron's subspace strings, but as long as they're throwing petty insults instead of punches, he has the advantage. No-one out-bickers Starscream, King of the Comeback, Sultan of the Slur!
He decides to start out easy. 'Aft-headed buffoon.'
'Degenerate freak.'
'Vainglorious dolt.'
'Uncouth sycophant.'
Starscream grins, sensing imminent victory. He lowers his voice, forcing Tracks to lean forwards in order to hear him. 'Seeker wannabe.'
Tracks's wings positively quiver, his face contorting in fury. He doesn't actually look too bad, like this. He could make a half-decent 'Con... if he weren't such a whiny, conceited brat. And if he didn't have such a useless, ugly alt-mode. And the voice -- talk about grating and uncultured. Ick.
Tracks practically spits the words at him. 'Megatron's bitch.'
Starscream's jaw drops. Without thinking, he tries to lunge forwards, to wrap his hands around that glitching slagheap's neck and throttle, but finds himself held fast, straining mindlessly against his bonds. 'You -- you -- '
'I what, Starscream? Am absolutely right, as always?' The rage has disappeared as fast as it came, and Tracks tilts Starscream's chin up with one finger until the Seeker has no choice but to look him in the optic. Starscream attempts to bite his fragging hand off, but the tentacles pull him up short. 'Well, naturally.'
Starscream sputters less than coherently. A detached part of his mind reflects that this is probably not his finest moment, but the rest of him really doesn't slagging care. Especially given that that fragging stuck-up shiny Autoscum aftface is smirking at him, getting right up in his personal space. It's not nearly as fun when someone else is the one doing it.
'Let me down!'
'Temper, temper.' Tracks runs the tip of his black beam gun along Starscream's jaw. Hardly lethal, but right now, Starscream thinks that death would be preferable.
'KILL YOU!'
'No need to be rude, especially when we've decided to accede to your demands.'
'DIE, YOU -- huh?'
'You said that your people like to get down to business. Well, we here at the Autobot Hilton are going to make you feel right at home with some good old-fashioned Decepticon-style hospitality.'
'... You are?' An uneasy feeling begins to creep into his energon pump.
'Normally we wouldn't do such a thing, but we're going to make an exception for you. We do so try to please our guests.'
He tries to work one hand free. When that doesn't succeed, he turns to his old failsafe: mindless babble. 'Uh... you know what? I've changed my mind. Hospitality is overrated. Not that I haven't enjoyed my stay, but I'd like to check out early, if it's all the same to you. People to kill, things to annihilate, you know how it is....'
'Well, that's too bad,' Tracks purrs. 'Because we can't just let you go.'
The gun barrel meanders its way down his throat, pressure increasing ever so slightly. He flinches.
'Of course,' Tracks murmurs, 'you could just accept Autobot hospitality, lacking though it may be.'
'What, tying up your foes in kinky contraptions and then giving them Primus's own buff-and-polish show?'
One day, he'll get the Constructicons to check whether his vocaliser actually is connected to his CPU.
'... Not that I was enjoying it in the slightest, you pervert.'
'Of course not.' Tracks is making no effort to contain his merriment.
'Now who's the one with the messed-up fantasies?'
'I think you've already demonstrated the answer to that one.'
Tracks twirls his polishing cloth on the end of one finger, and Starscream can see him calculating just how he's going to make Starscream suffer, all the many creative ways he's going to make sure that Starscream is reminded all about it every time they encounter each other in the future. And making sure that all the Decepticons know about it, too.
Death would be better. He knows this. And yet, as always, he just has to take the path of most masochism.
Tracks clears his vocaliser, clearly still amused. 'If you really want to do things the Autobot way, I guess we can manage that.'
Starscream tries to disguise his relief... and, he guesses, probably fails spectacularly.
'If you're going to receive Autobot hospitality, you'll have to play by Autobot standards. And part of the Autobot way is giving credit where credit's due.'
And with sudden, horrible certainty, he can tell what's coming. Oh, Primus no. Not that.
'Who's the most gorgeous, brave, sophisticated, swoon-worthy Transformer of them all?'
'Oh, come on!'
The slagging little scummy petroweaselly fragger just gives him that maddening raised optic ridge.
'Never!'
Nothing.
'Your overblown ego astounds even me.'
Still nothing.
'Doesn't lying go against your precious Autobot code?'
Tracks idly examines the finish on his gun.
'GNYARGH!'
Tracks idly examines the finish on his missiles.
He narrows his optics. 'Fine! You're the prettiest princess in all the land.'
Tracks smiles his infuriating smile. 'Not bad, for a beginner. You'll have to work on it, though.' However, he carefully sits himself down, and starts working ever so slowly on his legs.
Starscream groans and hangs his head, but can't bring himself to completely tear his optics from the show that, Primus willing, is about to unfold before him. If he's going to die of humiliation, he might as well have a little fun before he goes.
Dignity is overrated, anyway.
DVD Bonus Extra
Outside, the dull clang of familiar footsteps comes to a halt, twin slices of shadow beneath the door betraying the location of the footsteps' owner.
Inside, he crouches in the dark, remote control in hand, energon pump hammering in anticipation. His optics are dimmed and shielded, giving off minimal light. Beside him, the Tentaclon 3000 awaits his command.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the door slides open, revealing an imposing silhouette and unreadable red gaze. The figure enters the quarters, stride slow but firm.
At last -- !
Starscream shivers, barely able to contain his glee. Megatron is almost in range. So close, now....
He lifts a trembling finger to the remote, ready to wreak all sorts of really nasty revenge. Megatron is going to get a taste of his own lube job, oh yes....
A giggle slips out despite his best efforts, and it sounds considerably less than sane, even to his own audials. Quickly, he pushes the button marked Capture, and turns the dial up to Even Primus Can't Help You Now, Bucko.
And waits.
And waits.
He pushes the button again, harder this time.
Nothing.
He stabs at the controls, utilising the time-honoured method of Keep Pressing the Same Button Really Hard and It'll Magically Start Working. So caught up is he in his efforts that he doesn't fully register the growing pressure around his ankle, until he suddenly notices that the world is a whole lot more upside-down than it should probably be.
Again.
Primus fragging damn it.
Megatron strolls over with leisurely, predatorial ease, holding up his own remote control for Starscream to see and shaking his head in mock regret. Slagging Swindle. Exactly why had he trusted him, again?
The door slams shut, and Starscream finds himself optic-to-upside-down-optic with a very, very amused Megatron.
'... Oh, slag.'
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