nsfw side blog

After today, I'll be censoring all explicit artwork! Previous work can still be seen uncensored on twitter, bluesky, & where it could get past the tumblr filter. Patrons see everything uncensored, early access to SFW, w/options to see WIPs, sketches, polls & suggestion boxes, & a limited number of sketch commission slots.

But the prisoner’s optics were fixed on the scientist, cold and calculating despite the performative intimacy of his pose.

The stoney silence didn’t offer any deterrent to Getaway, though, and he continued, “All those little knobs and dials – did you know I’m good with my fingers? Or I’ve been told so, at least,” and he flexed the hand on his chest wide, the tip of his smallest finger just brushing the seam of his Autobrand, “all that practice with delicate little locks and cables, I suppose. I’m fluent in chirolinguistics, by the way.” He paused, as though it might be reasonable to expect a response, but his optics roamed over every inch of Perceptor’s frame like hungry scraplets.

“I could use my fingers to tell you all the things I’ve been thinking about you.”

In mute exasperation, Perceptor silently noted that the prisoner didn’t seem to be having any difficulty expressing his thoughts verbally, but he resolutely kept the thought to himself and refused to engage.

“I just can’t stop wondering if your lenses have a manual focus,” Getaway said, raising one hand and curling it as though cupping something circular.

“Shut up, Getaway,” Perceptor replied flatly, the words crawling their bitter way out of his processor before he could clamp down on his temper.

The hand flopped back onto the prisoner’s chest with a clang, and the mech lay in a heap like a de-stringed marionette for a few blissful kliks of silence. Perceptor stayed uncomfortably upright in the small guard’s chair, datapad held lightly – and he made sure his grip remained gentle – in one hand. He glared in rapt irritation over the top of the pad and through the cell’s bars and at its occupant. It was too much to expect Getaway to be intimidated into silence, though. With a long vent of cycled air, he dramatically slumped further across the berth, only serving to splay himself out even more. “I just can’t help myself when it comes to you, Percy,” he said, hand reaching out again to cup an imaginary object, “that frame… that red paint. The way you sit so stiffly in that chair; I just want to touch you.” Irritation, hot like a faulty circuit, swelled its sour blossom in the depths of Perceptor’s chest. He couldn’t quite control the twitch that drew his mouth down into a scowl, and anger burned all the brighter as Getaway’s cold blue optics noted the minute expression.

“I could help you relax – you could drop the uptight act with me,” and with that the spy’s hands were slowly roaming over his own plate, outlining panels and tracing over biolights.

Acting on a response of their own, Perceptor’s trigger fingers flexed. He snapped, “Your ridiculous scheme is not going to succeed.” That stopped Getaway’s act and the prisoner sat upright, tucking his legs under himself and leaning forward on braced arms with a soft noise of interest.

“And what plan would that be?” he asked, voice dripping with insulting innocence.

“You think,” Perceptor replied, ensuring his voice remained flat but cursing himself for being drawn in to an engagement, “that you can make me uncomfortable with your disgusting sexual comments, so I’ll leave and you can hope for another guard; one you can attempt to rile into coming close to the cell bars – again.”

With a movement quick and smooth like a cat, Getaway pushed off the berth and crossed the short distance to the bars. He leaned one hand against the narrow strip of metal at the edge of the cell and his face pressed close enough to the plasma that the air hummed with the shart tang of hot paint, but he made no move to back away and loomed in the entrance to the cell, cast in sharp relief by the yellow-white light.

“And that’s not going to work?” he asked, an odd breathless quality to his question.

“No.”

It was impossible to tell whether Getaway had a mouth under his faceplate, but Perceptor had the sudden sense that if there was a set of lips under there, they were drawn back in a grin.

“There’s no one else I’d rather have in this room, Percy.”

It was the first thing the mech had said in the last half joor that didn’t sound like a blatant lie, and it twisted in the air between them like a snake ready to strike.

Before Perceptor could begin to examine the statement, though, Getaway continued his vulgarity; “So you’re not uncomfortable with sex?”

Realising he had allowed the mech to entrap him in a false equivalence, Perceptor pursed his lips and didn’t answer. He focused his attention back onto the data he was trying to sort through and let the tableau of Getaway at his cell bars hang in the background of his awareness. Behind the wall formed by the datapad, he could see the prisoner standing stock still except for the free hand that drew up to cup his cheek in thought as he stared out of the containment.

There was almost a whole blissful klik of silence until Getaway said: “I really didn’t think you were uncomfortable with sex, you know.”

Resolute as a city guardian, Perceptor continued to scan the data in front of him, his fingers picking out fragments of order in the chaos and moving them into a form he could use. He wouldn’t allow himself to be drawn into anything approaching conversation again –

“I mean we all heard the stories.”

The statement was a freshly baited and shiny hook, complete with line and sinker. It hung in the silence, heavy and turning, and Perceptor was reduced to nothing more than a hungry fish. He bit before his processor had fully caught up.

“What stories?”

Silently he cursed himself for falling for it, and doubly cursed Getaway for the way he could wield words just as effectively as any weapon.

In the cell, Getaway shifted, turning side-on to the bars so he could lean back against the wall as nonchalantly as if they were catching up in Swerve’s between shifts. He gave a languid shrug, but his optics remained focussed on the scientist’s face.

“Oh, about the Wreckers,” he replied.

The conversation was spiralling far out of his control, and Perceptor was nothing more than detritus caught in a riptide. Somewhere deep in his chassis a cold dred warred with the heat of anger. His processor simply ambled along, sinking into the trap even as he knew what it was.

“What stories?” his vocaliser activated before his rationality could assert itself.

Again that languid movement that was meant to be a shrug, “Oh you know… why they suddenly decided they needed a scientist on the team. It was a bit of an odd choice for them – no one could really work out why they picked you when there were so many battle-hardened ‘Bots lined up for a spot. But it wasn’t about the fighting, was it?”

Getaway’s optics were piercingly sharp, even as his words drilled cold shock into Perceptor’s fuel lines. The cold burning through his body warred with the hot flush that flooded down from his helm, and they swirled in icy hot panic that froze his vocaliser, even as the lies continued.

“Springer would have you first,” and there was a dreamy note as Getaway recited, “maybe three or four times – at least twice, he’d make sure to turn you into a shivering mess. It would make sense, the mighty leader having his fill – sorry, your fill – before the others. But he’d let them watch, give them a good team talk before they got their hands dirty, just like he’d do for any other mission; and you would become a puddle of need and want. Beautiful. Your red plate all scuffed.”

Hungry optics roamed over Perceptor’s frame as the prisoner spoke, and Getaway’s hand made that cupping, turning motion again. Something was happening – wasn’t happening – in Perceptor’s throat. Words couldn’t seem to form, static buzzing a tickling hum on his lips as he tried to say something, anything. Even worse, embarrassment and doubt swelled through him, gnawing at his mind. Was this really a rumour that Getaway had heard?

And Getaway forged on, “I can imagine him fucking you, so big and dominating, so strong. You would make that cute little buzz, just like now, too bugged out from overload to speak. It’s okay, don’t be embarrassed; it must be a lot to remember. When he was done with you, the others would take their turns. One after the other, maybe one at each end. You’d look so beautiful, Percy, splayed out on a berth – on a desk – on the floor. Did they have you anywhere and everywhere?”

He paused in his story, and the burn of his optics tracing over the edges of the scientist’s plate was almost palpable.

Perceptor thought the words “that didn’t” or “that’s not” might have managed to tumble their way over his lips, but the cold shock of Getaway’s lurid lies was like liquid nitrogen to his brain module. He could feel the freeze of it battling the inferno of fury rising from his spark.

“How many times would they have you before they were done?” Getaway continued, and there was a hot, heady want in his voice now. “How many could you take, over and over? You’re such a good little team player, I know you would want more and more – want to do everything for your teammates, give everything.”

The lies bypassed the logic centres of Perceptor’s processors and curled claws directly into his spark, cold and furious. He stared at the mech through the glow of the cell bars, processor racing. It took several nanokliks to realise his hand was shaking, and several more to manually override his motor controls and still the temor. He was still trying to bring his senses under such control when Getaway spoke again.

“Do you miss it?”

The question came suddenly in the silence, almost starting Perceptor as he warred for self control. He allowed himself two hot vents, pouring the heat of fury and mortification out of his system, before he answered.

“There is nothing to miss,” he said flatly, pleased at the coldness that laced his voice. “Your defamatory lies are nothing more than disgusting fantasies.”

“A fantasy,” Getaway echoed, still dominating the cell in his proximity to the bars, “but it doesn’t have to be.”

The hot rage was making him heady and illogical, and Perceptor clamped his mouth shut, determined to avoid giving any further ammunition to the filth Getaway seemed determined to recite. “You’re so hot and bothered,” and now the prisoner’s tone took a honeyed edge, sweet and inviting. “But I could help you.”

The insinuation was so appalling that Perceptor’s mouth dropped open, and that made another wave of sickening embarrassment roll through him.

“That’s not –” he stammered, outrage making his words clumsy, “I would never–”

“Of course not,” Getaway agreed, voice dripping with coaxing enticement, “you’re so good, too clever to fall for blatant seduction.” Seduction. The word made Perceptor want to peel off his plate in strips so he could wash his bare protoform with the strongest cleanser he could find. As if Getaway’s vulgarity was seduction. The mech was shameless, trying to play on his emotions to some untoward end.

“But I could escape.”

And there it was: the goal. He’d known it all along, sensed the spy was trying to concoct some scheme to get out of the cell, but the fact that he thought he could recite filthy lies and persuade the scientist into letting him free on the promise of a frag; it was unimaginable. It was the highest of insults.

The heat of the indignation was roiling around his processor again, so strong Perceptor could barely think. He said nothing.

“How long do you have left on your watch – I make it out to be a couple of joors,” Getaway crooned, fed by the hum of Perceptor’s stuttering fans and static voice. “Anything could happen; I’m a dangerous criminal. I could deactivate the bars – nothing you could have done to stop me – and when I got out, well,” he rumbled a loud turn of his engine in punctuation, “no one could expect a scientist to stop me. It’s their fault for putting you on a prisoner watch in the first place. I could overpower you; no one would know, and if they managed to find out, I’d tell them I forced you. How I bound your hands and bent you over that chair.”

There was a frightening hunger in Getaway’s words, and Perceptor was beginning to lose certainty on whether the mech really was trying to lie his way through some unknown scheme, or if he really thought he could dirty talk his way out of the cell. His processor raced with the options; to ignore the prisoner and wait out his shift, or to call for help, or ask to be relieved. But then what would the others think? Seeing him quit his assignment early –

“It’s okay, Percy,” Getaway soothed, and his soft, low timbre was sickening, “I know you could never say yes – never betray your assignment. You’re such a good Autobot, so obedient. It’s okay,” and his optics still burned into his quarry’s form. “You don’t have to let me out, I’d never ask you to do that. Here’s all you have to do; just look at me. I can read those fuck me optics, all you have to do is focus them my way and agree to keep quiet while I unlock these bars.”

The sheer absurdity of the request snapped Perceptor out of his fugue, and he barked a sharp laugh that startled them both. Getaway’s helm tilted quizzically to the side, even as Perceptor laughed again, so hard his intake fans kicked up a notch.

“You are pathetic,” he snorted, and then the laughter took him again and his vocaliser choked out for a klik while Getaway stood, finally quiet against the bars of the cell.

Once Perceptor had regained himself, he continued, “Let us suppose I believe you aren’t trying to manipulate me into switching guard with someone else – still the most likely conclusion I can draw from your transparent attempts – and you think these ridiculous rumours are true. You think I’m so desperate for a – for a frag, that I would let a prisoner out just because he offered?”

He stood in one sharp motion and walked to the bars of the cell, so he could lean in and lock optics through the painfully bright light of the bars. The heat was searing, but neither mech made a move to back away.

“I’m going to finish my guard shift, Getaway,” Perceptor said slowly and with all the disdain he could muster, “and you will be quiet and keep your vile fantasies to yourself.”

There was something odd in Getaway’s optics as he gazed back, and a strange anticipation in his stance. The mech seemed like he was still excited, and Perceptor wondered again if there was any unhinged truth to the prisoner’s offer. But Getaway just nodded solemnly. When Perceptor returned to the chair and arranged himself again with datapad, there came a soft murmur from behind the bars.

“You really are the only mech I want here right now.”

“Shut up, Getaway,” he snapped, and focussed back on his datapad again.

It was too much to think that he had won, though. Resolutely, Perceptor spent several kliks sorting through his data, peripherally aware of Getaway shifting in the cell. For a few blessed kliks there was silence, broken only by the soft hum of the plasma bars and the soft noises as the prisoner changed position by the bars, but apparently nothing in the universe could make the pit-damned mech keep his vocaliser off.

“I really meant it, Percy,” Getaway called, his fingers tapping out a soft rhythm on the metal wall of the cell.

Perceptor continued to studiously ignore him, still feeling the sting of embarrassment that he had allowed the infuriating mech to draw him into an emotional response. He wouldn’t let himself be fooled into another outburst, no matter what other slander might be conjured.

“Come on Percy,” Getaway crooned, and there was that flicker of movement on the edge of the scientist’s peripheral vision as the mech shifted in the cell again, “I just want you to look at me.”

Perceptor forced himself to focus on the datapad, allowing himself a tiny movement to roll his shoulders and release some of the tension that had managed to creep its way back into his frame.

“And why would you want me to look at you, Getaway?” he said, pleased that his tone remained as flat and calm as ever.

Again the movement at the very edge of his vision, and Perceptor clamped down hard on the instinctual urge to turn his head to follow it, overruling with his iron desire to deny the spy any impression that he had managed to rattle his target.