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Dec. 24th, 2012 12:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
enslavementCW: nonconsensual sex, violence
You've never seen Blurr like this, and it sort of scares you.
You didn't mean to do it to him. But he's been in a mood lately, aggressive and challenging, and when you heard King Bee was going to be dropping in for a visit you'd kind of panicked. Blurr had seemed resigned when you scooped him up and dumped him into the terrarium. When you dropped the toy in with him, the one with the prehensile cabling that you designed and built just for him, he looked up at you with a disbelieving expression on his face.
When you locked the top of the tank and turned it on, keeping the controller to yourself, he'd been furious.
By the time King Bee showed up, though, his shouting had been muffled by the cabling crammed into his mouth, and that had been exactly what you'd intended. Gagged, he wouldn't be able to say anything to get him or you in trouble. And when Bumblebee whacked you with his cane and ordered you out, with a sour comment about distractions, Blurr had been moaning helplessly as the writhing bundle of cabling worked him towards overload. I'll make it up to you later, you'd mouthed to him, as you'd hustled out, but you don't think he was paying attention.
That had been yesterday.
It turned out that King Bee's visit had to do with an attack on a public works project; someone had bombed the surveillance hub they'd been installing on the other side of Iacon from the seat of 'Bee's government. No one knew who the attackers were, but the location of the hub was supposed to have been classified and Bumblebee wanted answers. Somebody, somehow had betrayed him, and he wasn't happy. Since you're his go-to guy for answers these days, you'd dutifully spent the rest of that afternoon, most of the night, and the whole morning combing the site, looking for clues as to the identities of the terrorists.
Criminal investigation isn't exactly your forte, but Bumblebee doesn't have a lot of people he can trust, and that knowledge carries you through. King 'Bee trusts you enough to put this into your hands, which means you're nowhere near the top of the list for his chopping block. It's a good feeling. It means you and your funding and your lab are safe, at least for now.
All that goodwill and cheer evaporate the instant you get back to said lab and realize that you left Blurr there. All night. In the grip of a device designed to stimulate him ruthlessly until it was turned off.
The little sexbot is limp in the coils of cabling, and quiet enough that you can hear clearly the laboring sound of his engine. His optics are open and unfocused and matte-dull and that scares you. So does the way he doesn't respond as you lean over the terrarium, calling his name.
You switch off the toy. Blurr whines as the graduated ridges of the cables draw out of his port, his mouth, release their grip on his cord. His voice is staticy and soft, and his body trembles just for a moment as it slumps to the floor of his cage.
"Blurr, Blurr, c'mon Blurr, talk to me," you chant as you unlock the cage and draw him up out of it. His body is limp and his joints creak alarmingly as his limbs sway. "Aw scrap, Blurr, c'mon--"
Think about it logically, Wheeljack. He's an exquisitely engineered piece of technology but he's not perfect. You can figure out what's wrong with him. You carry him over to your worktable and set him down, still trying to get a response out of him. You listen critically to the rattling in-and-out of his vents, the knocking of his engine, the way his limbs creak as you lift and rearrange them. You touch his cord lightly, but it makes him buck against the table with a hoarse little cry and you feel bad enough that you leave it. When you check out his port it's just with a penlight and magnifier, so you don't have to touch.
His optics had started the wheels turning in your head but it's the look at his port that cinches it for you. Sexbots are meant to take a pounding but they're only so big, and their internal lubricant reservoirs can only hold so much. He'd run out of lube-- probably sometime early in the morning, you suspect, judging by the chafing on his cord and the abrasions in his port. A peek into his mouth-- his lips part obediently for you, not a hint of resistance, and it makes your spark hurt-- confirms that the inside of his port isn't the only thing rubbed raw on him.
You did this to him. It hits you all at once, big and terrible and it makes your internals knot with guilt. You did this to him. He trusted you to treat him like a person, the one friend in the world that you have, and you did this to him.
"Oh Blurr. Blurr, you gotta believe me, I didn't mean for this to happen," you tell him.
He rolls his head away from you, the light from his optics dim and flickering and dull behind the matte glass of his optics.
Well. That was probably deliberate, though you can't really blame him. You figure you'd be pretty mad at you too, in his position.
You scoop him up again and carry him over to the sink, cradling him in one arm while you run the water, warm, with the other. No soaps or solvents, just water, and you dunk him in as soon as it's deep enough. That's enough to finally bring him out of it, flailing with poor coordination back up out of the makeshift tub, vents gasping.
"What-- the frag--?" he manages, clinging weakly to the side.
"You need to be hydrated," you tell him. You should probably push him back under but now that he's responding again you think maybe it wouldn't be the best idea. "Well, you need to be lubricated but this will do until you feel up to taking it. Dunk your head under, I'm worried about your optics."
You see his expression go flat and remember an instant too late that you have to be careful about commands with him. He sinks under the water, bubbles coming up from his vents, and when he surfaces again he's facing away from you.
You probably deserve that.
You leave him in the makeshift bath and disappear into the back room, rearranging untidy boxes of supplies until you find what you're looking for, a crate full of canisters of internal lubricant. You pick up one, hesitate, take another for good measure, and head back out.
To your surprise, he's still sitting in the sink when you come back, only the top of his head visible. He sits up a little higher when he sees you, spitting a stream of water back into the sink.
"Feeling better?" you ask him, but he only grunts in answer, turning his head away. You try not to be hurt, and set the canisters down by the sink. "Here. You can drink it if you want, but it'll get into your system faster if I siphon it in directly."
He doesn't respond immediately, and you're forced to conclude that he doesn't want your help with this. But just as you take a step back to leave him to it, he heaves himself up out of the bath and clicks open a hatch in his side. A maintenance access hatch, with big, clean, neatly labeled ports and intakes. "Siphon," he says, still not looking at you, and you hurry to get the tubing for him.
When it's done, he slips back into the bath, reaching to crank the hot water back on. It grates on you to be so dismissed by a sexbot but you figure you still kinda deserve it, so you retreat and leave him be.
Eventually he emerges from his bath. You've left a towel for him, and wait until he dried off to approach. He shies away before you're even in arm's reach so you stop. "How you feelin'?" you ask.
"What do you care?" he shoots right back.
You feel a prickle of anger. You don't deserve this anymore. "Now that ain't called for," you chide him. "I tried to help."
"Sure you did," Blurr mutters. "Gotta keep your toy in good condition, right? Can't have it burn out on you."
"Blurr." The tone of your voice makes him look up at you, his dull optics smoldering like coals. "Yer not bein' fair. What happened was an accident."
"You locked me in there with that thing! You were gone all night!" His voice crackles and breaks and he sounds outraged, but there's something else in it too. Something deeper, more despairing than mere anger.
"I didn't mean ta," you tell him. "'Bee commed and said he was coming and I--" You shrug. "I wanted ta make sure you didn't get us both in trouble. The last thing we need is 'Bee sending Prowl down ta haul you away. Okay?"
Blurr cycles his vents in a huff and throws the towel at your head. While you're distracted with it he leaps down off the table, obviously planning to bolt, but he's underestimated your reflexes. You grab him and hoist him into the air.
"Let go, let me fragging go Wheeljack, I swear to Primus if you don't--"
But you don't listen, you just bundle him close and squeeze him tight against your chest for a moment. If you could, you'd crush all the fear and sadness out of him, but mechs don't work that way and you know it. You hug him until he stop fighting, and only then do you set him down on the counter, hands on his shoulders to keep him from running before you've said your piece.
"I'm sorry," you tell him, looking him dead in the optics. "I didn't mean to leave you that long. It ain't gonna happen again. You got my word on that, okay?"
He stares right back at you, and you can tell he doesn't believe you. Time to try another tack.
"Stay here a minute. Okay?" you say, maybe kind of deliberately commanding him. "Don't move." You leave him frozen where he stands, secure in the knowledge that for at least a few minutes he's not going anywhere.
You disappear in the back room again, but this time you know exactly what you're looking for and where it is. When you come back, there's a vibro-knife blade handle in your hand, one that matches the one Blurr's currently wearing in his arm. You press it into his hands. "There. Proof, okay? I'm sorry. I really am."
Unfrozen, Blurr stares incredulously at the handle for a moment. His optics are a little brighter, a little steadier now, and you smile at him, reassured. He looks back up at you, his expression blank--
The knife comes to life in his hand. He moves, fast for such a little mech, and there's a thud against your shoulder. He vaults up and over your pauldron, leaps between your winglets, and hits the floor behind you with a clang.
By the time you realize he's stabbed you, he's gone, disappeared deeper into your lab. But you're reassured by the fact that he didn't head for the door, and besides, he only stabbed you in the shoulder. If he'd been aiming to seriously hurt you, you have no doubt he would have.
You think maybe he'll be okay.
You've never seen Blurr like this, and it sort of scares you.
You didn't mean to do it to him. But he's been in a mood lately, aggressive and challenging, and when you heard King Bee was going to be dropping in for a visit you'd kind of panicked. Blurr had seemed resigned when you scooped him up and dumped him into the terrarium. When you dropped the toy in with him, the one with the prehensile cabling that you designed and built just for him, he looked up at you with a disbelieving expression on his face.
When you locked the top of the tank and turned it on, keeping the controller to yourself, he'd been furious.
By the time King Bee showed up, though, his shouting had been muffled by the cabling crammed into his mouth, and that had been exactly what you'd intended. Gagged, he wouldn't be able to say anything to get him or you in trouble. And when Bumblebee whacked you with his cane and ordered you out, with a sour comment about distractions, Blurr had been moaning helplessly as the writhing bundle of cabling worked him towards overload. I'll make it up to you later, you'd mouthed to him, as you'd hustled out, but you don't think he was paying attention.
That had been yesterday.
It turned out that King Bee's visit had to do with an attack on a public works project; someone had bombed the surveillance hub they'd been installing on the other side of Iacon from the seat of 'Bee's government. No one knew who the attackers were, but the location of the hub was supposed to have been classified and Bumblebee wanted answers. Somebody, somehow had betrayed him, and he wasn't happy. Since you're his go-to guy for answers these days, you'd dutifully spent the rest of that afternoon, most of the night, and the whole morning combing the site, looking for clues as to the identities of the terrorists.
Criminal investigation isn't exactly your forte, but Bumblebee doesn't have a lot of people he can trust, and that knowledge carries you through. King 'Bee trusts you enough to put this into your hands, which means you're nowhere near the top of the list for his chopping block. It's a good feeling. It means you and your funding and your lab are safe, at least for now.
All that goodwill and cheer evaporate the instant you get back to said lab and realize that you left Blurr there. All night. In the grip of a device designed to stimulate him ruthlessly until it was turned off.
The little sexbot is limp in the coils of cabling, and quiet enough that you can hear clearly the laboring sound of his engine. His optics are open and unfocused and matte-dull and that scares you. So does the way he doesn't respond as you lean over the terrarium, calling his name.
You switch off the toy. Blurr whines as the graduated ridges of the cables draw out of his port, his mouth, release their grip on his cord. His voice is staticy and soft, and his body trembles just for a moment as it slumps to the floor of his cage.
"Blurr, Blurr, c'mon Blurr, talk to me," you chant as you unlock the cage and draw him up out of it. His body is limp and his joints creak alarmingly as his limbs sway. "Aw scrap, Blurr, c'mon--"
Think about it logically, Wheeljack. He's an exquisitely engineered piece of technology but he's not perfect. You can figure out what's wrong with him. You carry him over to your worktable and set him down, still trying to get a response out of him. You listen critically to the rattling in-and-out of his vents, the knocking of his engine, the way his limbs creak as you lift and rearrange them. You touch his cord lightly, but it makes him buck against the table with a hoarse little cry and you feel bad enough that you leave it. When you check out his port it's just with a penlight and magnifier, so you don't have to touch.
His optics had started the wheels turning in your head but it's the look at his port that cinches it for you. Sexbots are meant to take a pounding but they're only so big, and their internal lubricant reservoirs can only hold so much. He'd run out of lube-- probably sometime early in the morning, you suspect, judging by the chafing on his cord and the abrasions in his port. A peek into his mouth-- his lips part obediently for you, not a hint of resistance, and it makes your spark hurt-- confirms that the inside of his port isn't the only thing rubbed raw on him.
You did this to him. It hits you all at once, big and terrible and it makes your internals knot with guilt. You did this to him. He trusted you to treat him like a person, the one friend in the world that you have, and you did this to him.
"Oh Blurr. Blurr, you gotta believe me, I didn't mean for this to happen," you tell him.
He rolls his head away from you, the light from his optics dim and flickering and dull behind the matte glass of his optics.
Well. That was probably deliberate, though you can't really blame him. You figure you'd be pretty mad at you too, in his position.
You scoop him up again and carry him over to the sink, cradling him in one arm while you run the water, warm, with the other. No soaps or solvents, just water, and you dunk him in as soon as it's deep enough. That's enough to finally bring him out of it, flailing with poor coordination back up out of the makeshift tub, vents gasping.
"What-- the frag--?" he manages, clinging weakly to the side.
"You need to be hydrated," you tell him. You should probably push him back under but now that he's responding again you think maybe it wouldn't be the best idea. "Well, you need to be lubricated but this will do until you feel up to taking it. Dunk your head under, I'm worried about your optics."
You see his expression go flat and remember an instant too late that you have to be careful about commands with him. He sinks under the water, bubbles coming up from his vents, and when he surfaces again he's facing away from you.
You probably deserve that.
You leave him in the makeshift bath and disappear into the back room, rearranging untidy boxes of supplies until you find what you're looking for, a crate full of canisters of internal lubricant. You pick up one, hesitate, take another for good measure, and head back out.
To your surprise, he's still sitting in the sink when you come back, only the top of his head visible. He sits up a little higher when he sees you, spitting a stream of water back into the sink.
"Feeling better?" you ask him, but he only grunts in answer, turning his head away. You try not to be hurt, and set the canisters down by the sink. "Here. You can drink it if you want, but it'll get into your system faster if I siphon it in directly."
He doesn't respond immediately, and you're forced to conclude that he doesn't want your help with this. But just as you take a step back to leave him to it, he heaves himself up out of the bath and clicks open a hatch in his side. A maintenance access hatch, with big, clean, neatly labeled ports and intakes. "Siphon," he says, still not looking at you, and you hurry to get the tubing for him.
When it's done, he slips back into the bath, reaching to crank the hot water back on. It grates on you to be so dismissed by a sexbot but you figure you still kinda deserve it, so you retreat and leave him be.
Eventually he emerges from his bath. You've left a towel for him, and wait until he dried off to approach. He shies away before you're even in arm's reach so you stop. "How you feelin'?" you ask.
"What do you care?" he shoots right back.
You feel a prickle of anger. You don't deserve this anymore. "Now that ain't called for," you chide him. "I tried to help."
"Sure you did," Blurr mutters. "Gotta keep your toy in good condition, right? Can't have it burn out on you."
"Blurr." The tone of your voice makes him look up at you, his dull optics smoldering like coals. "Yer not bein' fair. What happened was an accident."
"You locked me in there with that thing! You were gone all night!" His voice crackles and breaks and he sounds outraged, but there's something else in it too. Something deeper, more despairing than mere anger.
"I didn't mean ta," you tell him. "'Bee commed and said he was coming and I--" You shrug. "I wanted ta make sure you didn't get us both in trouble. The last thing we need is 'Bee sending Prowl down ta haul you away. Okay?"
Blurr cycles his vents in a huff and throws the towel at your head. While you're distracted with it he leaps down off the table, obviously planning to bolt, but he's underestimated your reflexes. You grab him and hoist him into the air.
"Let go, let me fragging go Wheeljack, I swear to Primus if you don't--"
But you don't listen, you just bundle him close and squeeze him tight against your chest for a moment. If you could, you'd crush all the fear and sadness out of him, but mechs don't work that way and you know it. You hug him until he stop fighting, and only then do you set him down on the counter, hands on his shoulders to keep him from running before you've said your piece.
"I'm sorry," you tell him, looking him dead in the optics. "I didn't mean to leave you that long. It ain't gonna happen again. You got my word on that, okay?"
He stares right back at you, and you can tell he doesn't believe you. Time to try another tack.
"Stay here a minute. Okay?" you say, maybe kind of deliberately commanding him. "Don't move." You leave him frozen where he stands, secure in the knowledge that for at least a few minutes he's not going anywhere.
You disappear in the back room again, but this time you know exactly what you're looking for and where it is. When you come back, there's a vibro-knife blade handle in your hand, one that matches the one Blurr's currently wearing in his arm. You press it into his hands. "There. Proof, okay? I'm sorry. I really am."
Unfrozen, Blurr stares incredulously at the handle for a moment. His optics are a little brighter, a little steadier now, and you smile at him, reassured. He looks back up at you, his expression blank--
The knife comes to life in his hand. He moves, fast for such a little mech, and there's a thud against your shoulder. He vaults up and over your pauldron, leaps between your winglets, and hits the floor behind you with a clang.
By the time you realize he's stabbed you, he's gone, disappeared deeper into your lab. But you're reassured by the fact that he didn't head for the door, and besides, he only stabbed you in the shoulder. If he'd been aiming to seriously hurt you, you have no doubt he would have.
You think maybe he'll be okay.
