[Stuntific] Treat Me Right
Slammed out a Motormaster/Oikodomopolis bit to keep from going insane over all the unfinished stuff on my desk. Besides, 'Polis is fun to write when she's in the mood.
Title: Treat Me Right
Characters: Motormaster/Oikodomopolis, Breakdown, Dead End
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Love is a battlefield, especially in the Decepticon Empire.
Author's Note: Dysfunctional relationships 'R' Us. Special thanks to dunmurderin for beta-reading and giving me a helping hand with the summary.
My Little Table
---
The bar was just an off-duty bar in upper Polyhex, catering to the grunts who were stationed there and had too high a clearance to let them visit lower Polyhex with impunity. Not the type of place Motormaster expected to find Oikodomopolis, but there she was sitting sideways in a booth, Dead End dandled on her knee. The Porsche seemed to be tolerating this show of affection much better than any of the other Stunticons would have.
Breakdown sat opposite her, alternatively bristling at Oikodomopolis and the yellow semi-cab next to him.
Motormaster scowled, hands clenching and unclenching. Another truck. Always when the rumors finally got back to him, it was another truck. Wench.
Oikodomopolis saw him. She rested her cheek against one hand, said something to her tablemates. Breakdown immediately turned and craned to look at him.
he radioed back.
<'Polis is real taken by her. Even worse than when she's with you.>
Breakdown, he thought, was probably exaggerating. Breakdown didn't like her much. The whole deal where she turned into a fuelstation and ate people made him nervous. None of the other Stunticons liked her, come to think of it. Still... His optics darkened around the edges, and the scowl slipped into a snarl. It was almost gratifying to see the cables around Oikodomopolis's forearms quiver and lash - she could keep her face expressionless, but not her cables.
And she had a damn good reason to be afraid.
She was his, damn it, and no one else's! Why did she always go and do this?
Then she stood up, letting Dead End slide to the ground to sit at her feet, and Motormaster felt a brief, exultant rush as he thought of what he would do to her when she came crawling back to him- And Oikodomopolis walked over to the bar instead.
He gaped at her, then shoved his way over to the bar. "Wench! What the-!"
She turned away from the bar with a pair of glasses in her hand, sparkling with pink energon. With an easy smile, she pushed one into his hands. "Have a drink, Moto. Then we'll talk."
The glass -crunched- in his hand. "Let's talk now, 'Polis."
"Knew you'd do that." She held out the other glass, still smiling. "Won't even hurt to have a drink first, Motormaster. Then we can get on with the yelling and the fists."
He opened up his hand, the remaining bits of glass clinking as they struck the ground. He held his hand out, energon dripping from between his fingers. Dare you.
She dared. She always dared. That self-confidence that so infuriated Drag Strip let her sit for years in Autobot-owned territory, waiting for prey to come along. How could she not dare to offer him the bar's swill when that was what she wanted to do in the first place-
He took a long swig from the glass, and it hit like Bruticus's fist. Not the bar's swill. Her energon, from her tanks, tasting sweet and too patient, like soft walls that you could never climb out of. Smooth and warm, and it clutched to the inner surface of his tubes. He gulped down the rest, licked his fingers clean, then yanked her into a kiss. "We'll talk later."
"Always do." She wrapped her arms around him, cables flexing gently across his back, and surrendered to the kiss as much as she was able.
He didn't even strike her when the fueltap snaked out from her mouth and pierced his.
End
Title: Treat Me Right
Characters: Motormaster/Oikodomopolis, Breakdown, Dead End
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Love is a battlefield, especially in the Decepticon Empire.
Author's Note: Dysfunctional relationships 'R' Us. Special thanks to dunmurderin for beta-reading and giving me a helping hand with the summary.
My Little Table
---
The bar was just an off-duty bar in upper Polyhex, catering to the grunts who were stationed there and had too high a clearance to let them visit lower Polyhex with impunity. Not the type of place Motormaster expected to find Oikodomopolis, but there she was sitting sideways in a booth, Dead End dandled on her knee. The Porsche seemed to be tolerating this show of affection much better than any of the other Stunticons would have.
Breakdown sat opposite her, alternatively bristling at Oikodomopolis and the yellow semi-cab next to him.
Motormaster scowled, hands clenching and unclenching. Another truck. Always when the rumors finally got back to him, it was another truck. Wench.
Oikodomopolis saw him. She rested her cheek against one hand, said something to her tablemates. Breakdown immediately turned and craned to look at him.
he radioed back.
<'Polis is real taken by her. Even worse than when she's with you.>
Breakdown, he thought, was probably exaggerating. Breakdown didn't like her much. The whole deal where she turned into a fuelstation and ate people made him nervous. None of the other Stunticons liked her, come to think of it. Still... His optics darkened around the edges, and the scowl slipped into a snarl. It was almost gratifying to see the cables around Oikodomopolis's forearms quiver and lash - she could keep her face expressionless, but not her cables.
And she had a damn good reason to be afraid.
She was his, damn it, and no one else's! Why did she always go and do this?
Then she stood up, letting Dead End slide to the ground to sit at her feet, and Motormaster felt a brief, exultant rush as he thought of what he would do to her when she came crawling back to him- And Oikodomopolis walked over to the bar instead.
He gaped at her, then shoved his way over to the bar. "Wench! What the-!"
She turned away from the bar with a pair of glasses in her hand, sparkling with pink energon. With an easy smile, she pushed one into his hands. "Have a drink, Moto. Then we'll talk."
The glass -crunched- in his hand. "Let's talk now, 'Polis."
"Knew you'd do that." She held out the other glass, still smiling. "Won't even hurt to have a drink first, Motormaster. Then we can get on with the yelling and the fists."
He opened up his hand, the remaining bits of glass clinking as they struck the ground. He held his hand out, energon dripping from between his fingers. Dare you.
She dared. She always dared. That self-confidence that so infuriated Drag Strip let her sit for years in Autobot-owned territory, waiting for prey to come along. How could she not dare to offer him the bar's swill when that was what she wanted to do in the first place-
He took a long swig from the glass, and it hit like Bruticus's fist. Not the bar's swill. Her energon, from her tanks, tasting sweet and too patient, like soft walls that you could never climb out of. Smooth and warm, and it clutched to the inner surface of his tubes. He gulped down the rest, licked his fingers clean, then yanked her into a kiss. "We'll talk later."
"Always do." She wrapped her arms around him, cables flexing gently across his back, and surrendered to the kiss as much as she was able.
He didn't even strike her when the fueltap snaked out from her mouth and pierced his.
End