Valentine's Ficlets Take Two
a/n: A few more edited and spruced up Valentine's Ficlets. Posted because this coming week is going to be BUSY and I don't know when I'll be able to post again. Maybe next Sunday? Anyway, these will be collected in Database in Transmission and are mostly SFW. Enjoy!
Title: Of Disobedience
Universe: Transformers Prime
Characters: ArceexWheeljack, Ratchet, (implied ArceexBulkheadxWheeljack)
Rating: T
Warnings: public discipline, mostly sfw, dom/sub relationship, dirty thoughts
Description: Jack will never, ever know that Arcee had gotten the idea from him.
Arcee heard Ratchet before she saw the medic approach, but she made no efforts to warn Ratchet about what he was about to see. After all, part of the fun was in seeing that look on Ratchet's face.
Kind of like the one she could see from a peripheral sensor right now.
“Why is Wheeljack in his altmode in the corner?” Ratchet's field buzzed with bewilderment.
Arcee looked up from her datapad. The medic looked honestly disgruntled as well, perhaps because Wheeljack's current position made it difficult for him to get to one of his toolboxes. She'd put him there on purpose. It was the most highly visible corner.
Arcee smirked. “Because I put him there,” she answered, and returned her gaze to her datapad. Not that she'd been paying it a whit of attention.
Most of her focus was on the insubordinate Wrecker, crackling with unresolved overcharge, and due to suffer it until Arcee felt he deserved his release.
The idea of the corner she'd gotten from Jack, not that she'd ever tell her human partner what she used the information for. Humans had some very, very interesting discipline techniques. And since pain wasn't much of a deterrent to Wheeljack (just last week she'd whipped him to overload, it had been a record), Arcee had sought out other methods.
Ratchet planted his hands on his hips, his optics narrowing at her. “Though I am not sure whether I want to know the answer, pray tell why you put him there?”
Taillights flashed at her. Arcee tilted her helm in Wheeljack's direction, arching an orbital ridge. It wasn't embarrassment that Wheeljack sent her, but amusement. There was very little that shamed Wheeljack.
In fact, Arcee would be surprised if anything shamed the unrepentant slagger. He was a voyeur and an exhibitionist to boot.
“Because he was disobedient.” Arcee reclined in her makeshift chair, resolving to be more comfortable.
It had only been an hour. He wasn't suffering in the slightest.
“Disobedient,” Ratchet repeated flatly.
He stared at her and then he looked at Wheeljack, and then he looked back at her. He slowly, ever so slowly, connected the dots. He did, after all, share a wall with Bulkhead and Wheeljack's claimed room.
And Arcee knew when he understood because Ratchet's field flared with a mixture of outrage and exasperation. He threw his hands into the air, whirled on a heel, and stalked away.
She could have sworn he muttered something about “not needing that” before he disappeared down the hall. Poor Ratchet. Maybe Optimus would console him.
Arcee did not laugh, on the outside at least.
Brake lights flashed at her this time. And then Wheeljack's right blinker flicked on and off, something like a wink. Fragging cheeky Wreckers.
Maybe the corner wasn't enough for him. Maybe what he really needed was a spanking. For her to bend him over, borrow Bulkhead's paddle, and strip the paint off his aft. Or make Bulkhead do it. He could hit harder. And in the meantime, she could do something about Wheeljack's smart-aft mouth.
Hmm. Now there was an idea.
Arcee's own desire returned with a vengeance. Though careful control kept her from betraying it to Wheeljack.
“Two more hours,” she said aloud, pretending full interest in her datapad. Or maybe she'd double it just to prove a point.
Wheeljack's engine revved before he silenced himself. Smart mech.
Little did he know, Bulkhead would be back in two hours. And he would be just as disappointed to hear how badly Wheeljack had misbehaved.
Well, for a certain definition of disappointed anyway.
Arcee smirked.
Poor Ratchet wasn't going to get any recharge tonight at all.
Title: Lazy Days
Universe: IDW Robots in Disguise, post-Dark Cybertron
Characters: Swindle, Blurr
Warnings: non-sexual petplay
Rating: T
Description: Blurr was as indecently sprawled over Swindle's lap as any mech could be.
There were a lot of things that Swindle did for credits (and sometimes influence). Some of the things he enjoyed. Some were tolerable. Some were endured. But so long as it brought in the creds, he could generally grin and bear it. Everything had a price after all.
And then there were the things he would have never thought about if it hadn't been for the credits. Things that made him want to give it a try on his own.
He pitched the idea to the only mech he thought would give it the due attention the proposal deserved.
Blurr had been hesitant at first but warmed up to the idea over several sessions and now actively sought Swindle out for some playtime.
It was a ship of relaxation in a sea of backstabbing, cutthroat, sly and manipulative practices. Not that Swindle despised said practices. No, he luxuriated in them. There was nothing quite like going into a bargaining session and emerging victorious.
But this was good, too. This was for fun. And he didn't have to pay a cred for it.
Blurr draped over his lap, racing engine a light purr that sent a calming rhythm through Swindle's spark. Swindle's hand rested on the racer's back, stroking him from the tip of his helm, down the length of his dorsal plating and back again. Over and over.
The rhythmic motion of his hand, the glide of metal over metal, was as soothing to Swindle as it was to Blurr. And the racer must have been in a light recharge because his vents were wheezing. It was actually pretty cute.
Swindle had a datapad in one hand and while he could have spent the time doing some calculations or plotting his next economic conquest, instead he was reading a datatrack. A terribly written detective novel but in this current age of rebuilding, one couldn't be picky.
Blurr stirred, fidgeting. One arm dangled over the side of the couch and idly started pawing at Swindle's leg, fingers scraping against his plating. He'd just gotten polished, too.
Swindle made a warning noise in his chassis. "Stop that."
One blue optic unshuttered at him, watching him. Testing him.
The fingers kneaded at his armor again, threatening to leave scratches.
Swindle narrowed his optics and flicked a finger over Blurr's audial. "I said stop," he repeated, more firmly this time.
Blurr huffed a great (wheezing, he should really have that looked at) ventilation and flopped onto his side, limbs stretching in all directions before he settled again, back on his belly. He was as indecently sprawled over Swindle's lap as any mech could be.
More amused than he let on, Swindle let his hand rest on Blurr's back. Plating twitched beneath his palm but the distinct vibrations of purring had come back into play. Swindle renewed the stroking and smiled when Blurr's helm tilted into his hand.
It was to be a lazy day then. Well, nothing wrong with that.
So Blurr dozed and Swindle read and the vidscreen mumbled the daily news in the background and it was good. Eventually they'd have to get up. Swindle would need to stretch and Blurr's need to be in motion would arise, but for now, yes. This was good.
Title: Trust
Universe: IDW, MTMTE, before Overlord Arc
Characters: DriftxRatchet
Rating: T
Warnings: discussions of BDSM
Description: Ratchet makes an offer and wonders why he hadn't done it sooner.
Trust, Ratchet realized, was one of the greatest and most difficult gifts.
He watched Drift fidget as he looked around Ratchet's cluttered habsuite, radiating unease. He stared at the collection of trinkets that had survived the war, stowed safely in a subspace pocket. His fingers twitched as though he wanted to touch them, but feared breaking them. He was so desperate to please that the fear of screwing up had overtaken all else.
Drift was beyond the consolation of words. Actions he understood better. Words were often little consolation in the gutters. Ratchet knew this all too well.
There was so much more he should have done back then. But it was pointless to linger on the past, not when the future stretched out before them.
Ratchet strode across the floor and reached for Drift's hand. It was given to him without question.
“Here,” Ratchet said as he turned Drift's hand upward.
Ratchet placed a pair of cuffs on the bare palm. They were a standard construction, not stasis, but physical restraint. They could be easily broken if need be. They were perfect for beginners and were more for Drift's sake than Ratchet's own.
Ratchet could handle stasis cuffs. He'd been bound with a lot worse. But right now, he wanted Drift to be comfortable with this. To understand what gift Ratchet was giving him.
Drift blinked. “Um.”
“Use them on me,” Ratchet said, his systems already cycling hotter in anticipation. It had been vorns since he'd last indulged in such play. Not since...
Well, the less thought of that, of him, the better.
Drift's weight shifted. “Ratchet, I don't think--”
“--you can.” Ratchet closed Drift's fingers around the cuffs and kept his hand over Drift's. “Because there are rules. You won't hurt me. At least, no more than I ask you to.”
Drift's field was a confusing tangle of intrigue and dread. He stared at their hands and the cuffs as though he held a dangerous weapon.
“I don't know if I can.” His plating ruffled, betraying his unease. It had nothing to do with shyness, Ratchet knew.
It was a matter of self-control.
“You don't have to if you don't want to. I can get along fine without it.” Ratchet lent his field, offering support and affection. “You don't have to do it for my sake either. But if you're interested, I'm offering.”
Drift's optics snapped to him in surprise, as though having the choice was foreign to him. His mouth opened and closed. His engine purred.
“I...” He licked his lips, working his intake. “What do I do?”
Ratchet pressed closer, the edges of their armor coming into contact. “I'll teach you.”
“Because there are rules.” Drift's vocalizer crackled with static.
“Yes.” Ratchet pulled his hand back, leaving Drift in possession of the cuffs. “For example, I enjoy minor levels of pain but nothing that would leave permanent damage or require extensive repair. I like being bound, but I don't like for my senses to be restricted. I want to be able to see and hear what you are doing.” Vastly simplified but it would be enough for Drift to get a basic understanding.
Drift nodded slowly. “I don't think I should hurt you. Even if you wanted me to.” Something rippled in his field, too fast for Ratchet to read, but he had a good guess of what it had been.
“Then I won't ask for it,” Ratchet said and was doubly glad to see the relief in Drift's field. “That's how it works. A 'no' is always a 'no'. A 'yes' can become a 'no' and negotiations can be made before and after but never during.”
Now that Ratchet had broached the topic, he wondered why he hadn't mentioned it sooner. There was something about the conversation, the discussion, that would put Drift more at ease than murmured reassurances. Which was fine with Ratchet. As far as he was concerned, clearly given consent was never a bad thing.
And for Drift, it was probably better than relying on implications.
“Then I want to try.” Drift tightened his fingers around the cuffs and met Ratchet's gaze. “I want you to teach me.”
Ratchet grinned. He should have brought this up a lot sooner.
“Then come and sit. I'll get the energon and we can discuss the details. All right?”
Drift smiled as well, his field flickering with relief around the edges. “Sounds good.”
His so-called aura was probably just as bright, Ratchet thought to himself.
a/n: There are more Valentine's BDSM fics to come! Though the rest will be posted as either standalones or part of a series that I've grouped together. I had a lot of fun writing them and now I'm having fun expanding them. :)
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated!
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/277354.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
Title: Of Disobedience
Universe: Transformers Prime
Characters: ArceexWheeljack, Ratchet, (implied ArceexBulkheadxWheeljack)
Rating: T
Warnings: public discipline, mostly sfw, dom/sub relationship, dirty thoughts
Description: Jack will never, ever know that Arcee had gotten the idea from him.
Arcee heard Ratchet before she saw the medic approach, but she made no efforts to warn Ratchet about what he was about to see. After all, part of the fun was in seeing that look on Ratchet's face.
Kind of like the one she could see from a peripheral sensor right now.
“Why is Wheeljack in his altmode in the corner?” Ratchet's field buzzed with bewilderment.
Arcee looked up from her datapad. The medic looked honestly disgruntled as well, perhaps because Wheeljack's current position made it difficult for him to get to one of his toolboxes. She'd put him there on purpose. It was the most highly visible corner.
Arcee smirked. “Because I put him there,” she answered, and returned her gaze to her datapad. Not that she'd been paying it a whit of attention.
Most of her focus was on the insubordinate Wrecker, crackling with unresolved overcharge, and due to suffer it until Arcee felt he deserved his release.
The idea of the corner she'd gotten from Jack, not that she'd ever tell her human partner what she used the information for. Humans had some very, very interesting discipline techniques. And since pain wasn't much of a deterrent to Wheeljack (just last week she'd whipped him to overload, it had been a record), Arcee had sought out other methods.
Ratchet planted his hands on his hips, his optics narrowing at her. “Though I am not sure whether I want to know the answer, pray tell why you put him there?”
Taillights flashed at her. Arcee tilted her helm in Wheeljack's direction, arching an orbital ridge. It wasn't embarrassment that Wheeljack sent her, but amusement. There was very little that shamed Wheeljack.
In fact, Arcee would be surprised if anything shamed the unrepentant slagger. He was a voyeur and an exhibitionist to boot.
“Because he was disobedient.” Arcee reclined in her makeshift chair, resolving to be more comfortable.
It had only been an hour. He wasn't suffering in the slightest.
“Disobedient,” Ratchet repeated flatly.
He stared at her and then he looked at Wheeljack, and then he looked back at her. He slowly, ever so slowly, connected the dots. He did, after all, share a wall with Bulkhead and Wheeljack's claimed room.
And Arcee knew when he understood because Ratchet's field flared with a mixture of outrage and exasperation. He threw his hands into the air, whirled on a heel, and stalked away.
She could have sworn he muttered something about “not needing that” before he disappeared down the hall. Poor Ratchet. Maybe Optimus would console him.
Arcee did not laugh, on the outside at least.
Brake lights flashed at her this time. And then Wheeljack's right blinker flicked on and off, something like a wink. Fragging cheeky Wreckers.
Maybe the corner wasn't enough for him. Maybe what he really needed was a spanking. For her to bend him over, borrow Bulkhead's paddle, and strip the paint off his aft. Or make Bulkhead do it. He could hit harder. And in the meantime, she could do something about Wheeljack's smart-aft mouth.
Hmm. Now there was an idea.
Arcee's own desire returned with a vengeance. Though careful control kept her from betraying it to Wheeljack.
“Two more hours,” she said aloud, pretending full interest in her datapad. Or maybe she'd double it just to prove a point.
Wheeljack's engine revved before he silenced himself. Smart mech.
Little did he know, Bulkhead would be back in two hours. And he would be just as disappointed to hear how badly Wheeljack had misbehaved.
Well, for a certain definition of disappointed anyway.
Arcee smirked.
Poor Ratchet wasn't going to get any recharge tonight at all.
Title: Lazy Days
Universe: IDW Robots in Disguise, post-Dark Cybertron
Characters: Swindle, Blurr
Warnings: non-sexual petplay
Rating: T
Description: Blurr was as indecently sprawled over Swindle's lap as any mech could be.
There were a lot of things that Swindle did for credits (and sometimes influence). Some of the things he enjoyed. Some were tolerable. Some were endured. But so long as it brought in the creds, he could generally grin and bear it. Everything had a price after all.
And then there were the things he would have never thought about if it hadn't been for the credits. Things that made him want to give it a try on his own.
He pitched the idea to the only mech he thought would give it the due attention the proposal deserved.
Blurr had been hesitant at first but warmed up to the idea over several sessions and now actively sought Swindle out for some playtime.
It was a ship of relaxation in a sea of backstabbing, cutthroat, sly and manipulative practices. Not that Swindle despised said practices. No, he luxuriated in them. There was nothing quite like going into a bargaining session and emerging victorious.
But this was good, too. This was for fun. And he didn't have to pay a cred for it.
Blurr draped over his lap, racing engine a light purr that sent a calming rhythm through Swindle's spark. Swindle's hand rested on the racer's back, stroking him from the tip of his helm, down the length of his dorsal plating and back again. Over and over.
The rhythmic motion of his hand, the glide of metal over metal, was as soothing to Swindle as it was to Blurr. And the racer must have been in a light recharge because his vents were wheezing. It was actually pretty cute.
Swindle had a datapad in one hand and while he could have spent the time doing some calculations or plotting his next economic conquest, instead he was reading a datatrack. A terribly written detective novel but in this current age of rebuilding, one couldn't be picky.
Blurr stirred, fidgeting. One arm dangled over the side of the couch and idly started pawing at Swindle's leg, fingers scraping against his plating. He'd just gotten polished, too.
Swindle made a warning noise in his chassis. "Stop that."
One blue optic unshuttered at him, watching him. Testing him.
The fingers kneaded at his armor again, threatening to leave scratches.
Swindle narrowed his optics and flicked a finger over Blurr's audial. "I said stop," he repeated, more firmly this time.
Blurr huffed a great (wheezing, he should really have that looked at) ventilation and flopped onto his side, limbs stretching in all directions before he settled again, back on his belly. He was as indecently sprawled over Swindle's lap as any mech could be.
More amused than he let on, Swindle let his hand rest on Blurr's back. Plating twitched beneath his palm but the distinct vibrations of purring had come back into play. Swindle renewed the stroking and smiled when Blurr's helm tilted into his hand.
It was to be a lazy day then. Well, nothing wrong with that.
So Blurr dozed and Swindle read and the vidscreen mumbled the daily news in the background and it was good. Eventually they'd have to get up. Swindle would need to stretch and Blurr's need to be in motion would arise, but for now, yes. This was good.
Title: Trust
Universe: IDW, MTMTE, before Overlord Arc
Characters: DriftxRatchet
Rating: T
Warnings: discussions of BDSM
Description: Ratchet makes an offer and wonders why he hadn't done it sooner.
Trust, Ratchet realized, was one of the greatest and most difficult gifts.
He watched Drift fidget as he looked around Ratchet's cluttered habsuite, radiating unease. He stared at the collection of trinkets that had survived the war, stowed safely in a subspace pocket. His fingers twitched as though he wanted to touch them, but feared breaking them. He was so desperate to please that the fear of screwing up had overtaken all else.
Drift was beyond the consolation of words. Actions he understood better. Words were often little consolation in the gutters. Ratchet knew this all too well.
There was so much more he should have done back then. But it was pointless to linger on the past, not when the future stretched out before them.
Ratchet strode across the floor and reached for Drift's hand. It was given to him without question.
“Here,” Ratchet said as he turned Drift's hand upward.
Ratchet placed a pair of cuffs on the bare palm. They were a standard construction, not stasis, but physical restraint. They could be easily broken if need be. They were perfect for beginners and were more for Drift's sake than Ratchet's own.
Ratchet could handle stasis cuffs. He'd been bound with a lot worse. But right now, he wanted Drift to be comfortable with this. To understand what gift Ratchet was giving him.
Drift blinked. “Um.”
“Use them on me,” Ratchet said, his systems already cycling hotter in anticipation. It had been vorns since he'd last indulged in such play. Not since...
Well, the less thought of that, of him, the better.
Drift's weight shifted. “Ratchet, I don't think--”
“--you can.” Ratchet closed Drift's fingers around the cuffs and kept his hand over Drift's. “Because there are rules. You won't hurt me. At least, no more than I ask you to.”
Drift's field was a confusing tangle of intrigue and dread. He stared at their hands and the cuffs as though he held a dangerous weapon.
“I don't know if I can.” His plating ruffled, betraying his unease. It had nothing to do with shyness, Ratchet knew.
It was a matter of self-control.
“You don't have to if you don't want to. I can get along fine without it.” Ratchet lent his field, offering support and affection. “You don't have to do it for my sake either. But if you're interested, I'm offering.”
Drift's optics snapped to him in surprise, as though having the choice was foreign to him. His mouth opened and closed. His engine purred.
“I...” He licked his lips, working his intake. “What do I do?”
Ratchet pressed closer, the edges of their armor coming into contact. “I'll teach you.”
“Because there are rules.” Drift's vocalizer crackled with static.
“Yes.” Ratchet pulled his hand back, leaving Drift in possession of the cuffs. “For example, I enjoy minor levels of pain but nothing that would leave permanent damage or require extensive repair. I like being bound, but I don't like for my senses to be restricted. I want to be able to see and hear what you are doing.” Vastly simplified but it would be enough for Drift to get a basic understanding.
Drift nodded slowly. “I don't think I should hurt you. Even if you wanted me to.” Something rippled in his field, too fast for Ratchet to read, but he had a good guess of what it had been.
“Then I won't ask for it,” Ratchet said and was doubly glad to see the relief in Drift's field. “That's how it works. A 'no' is always a 'no'. A 'yes' can become a 'no' and negotiations can be made before and after but never during.”
Now that Ratchet had broached the topic, he wondered why he hadn't mentioned it sooner. There was something about the conversation, the discussion, that would put Drift more at ease than murmured reassurances. Which was fine with Ratchet. As far as he was concerned, clearly given consent was never a bad thing.
And for Drift, it was probably better than relying on implications.
“Then I want to try.” Drift tightened his fingers around the cuffs and met Ratchet's gaze. “I want you to teach me.”
Ratchet grinned. He should have brought this up a lot sooner.
“Then come and sit. I'll get the energon and we can discuss the details. All right?”
Drift smiled as well, his field flickering with relief around the edges. “Sounds good.”
His so-called aura was probably just as bright, Ratchet thought to himself.
a/n: There are more Valentine's BDSM fics to come! Though the rest will be posted as either standalones or part of a series that I've grouped together. I had a lot of fun writing them and now I'm having fun expanding them. :)
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated!
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/277354.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.