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The Behaviorist

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Script Title: The Behaviorist
Warnings: A mechanical take on bestiality, and fetishizing Earth
Rating: R
Continuity: G1
Characters: Hound/Ravage
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): - “this lack of bestial love” + Auction fic

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It happened because they didn’t talk about it.

Oh, they spoke to each, but they used small words, short sentences. More often than not, it was more gesture and multi-toned grunts that conveyed meaning without actual words. Touch and the vibrant color of a look, judging how much, how often, how hard, how long. Stop, go, here, there, and never once did a single syllable about their instructions get said. To speak of it would make it real beyond the moment, give it significance beyond two mechs meeting to get off.

If they said anything, it was an excuse, and not to each other. Their respective factions weren't in the habit of letting soldiers wander off for no reason, after all.

They had the advantage of being scouts, both of them. That didn't relieve them of their dedication to their irreconcilable Causes, or responsibility to their faction. It just made it easier to slip free for a short while to...indulge.

Ravage knew the excuses Hound used. Just because he didn't outright ask didn't mean he trusted the Autobot not to confide in close friends, and meeting like this left the Cassetticon vulnerable. Well-meaning idiots had brought sweeter unspoken deals to a bitter downfall before.

But his wariness didn't bear fruit. Hound's excuses stayed airtight; no leaks even to his best pals. The green mech never told the other Autobots about why some days his drives up the mountain weren’t just solitary explorations and appreciations of nature. He was always glad when someone accompanied him, because wasn't it nice when Trailbreaker or Bumblebee went with him off into the countryside? How wonderful to have company. The scout's face nearly split in two with wide smiles whenever Carly offered. He’d rearrange his whole day to be the mech who played transport for any of the Autobots’ human friends on camping trips or drives to and from the city, in fact, and his joy made the perfect cover.

Ravage suspected that Hound's simple happiness was as real as it appeared. The mech just enjoyed company.

That made the cover even more flawless, of course.

Because someone who was that social had to have an off-day or two, right? So no one suspected a thing when the scout wanted some time alone. Not often, really, and never enough to rouse suspicion. There were just days when offers for company were turned down. He always had good reasons to do so, however.

His most frequent excuse was bird-watching. Nobody quiet enough to pass his standards for a bird-watching companion wanted to go bird-watching with him, so everyone let the topic drop when he brought it up as an excuse. Hound tried to not talk about his lone excursions more than that, and the other Autobots respectfully allowed this privacy. They weren't letting a scout go off unsupervised; they were allowing a social, cheerful friend some time alone.

Except that he wasn't alone. Houng loved bird-watching, he really did, but that wasn’t why he occasionally refused company on his off-duty trips.

He didn’t know what excuses Ravage used to get away, and he didn't ask. It amused the technimal that the mech probably didn’t care. He doubted that Hound even did more than a cursory check for other Decepticons when Ravage appeared to meet him. To Hound, Soundwave either knew, or he didn’t. Ravage either told the other Decepticons, or he didn’t. As long as Hound didn’t ask, the jaguar Cassette didn’t tell him, and their mutual silence on the subject had worked out for the scout so far.

Autobots were so pathetically trusting in fate and luck and good intentions, even the ones who should know better by now. As long as neither of them talked about it, it was as if the purple aed insignia they sported didn't matter. What was happening between them had nothing to do with their factions. Talking wasn’t part of it, at least beyond grunted syllables and moaned encouragements. Short, choppy words in panted sentences were allowed.

Good intentions? Hardly. A good, hard frag? Oh, yes. That, the Autobot could have a little faith in. For that, Ravage would make his own excuses.

Ravage certainly wasn’t here for information -- or rather, some day he might be, but Hound couldn’t stop him, so he apparently chose not to worry about it unless or until it happened. The Cassetticon’s reasons were carnal and clear, at least so far as Ravage had revealed his thought processes. So far, it’d been enough to keep the small Decepticon coming back.

Hound’s reasons were complicated enough to justify showing up, week after week, an Autobot scout compromising himself by meeting with the enemy. They were simplistic enough on the surface, but Ravage had scratched deeper. It wasn't just a frag. It wasn't even the illicit thrill from a frag with a Decepticon. No, things weren't that simple, not for this mech. No, the scout had picked Ravage specifically, and he had reasons.

The Autobot loved Earth. He truly did. He loved its weather, its geology, its ecosystem…its inhabitants. Humans were wondrous creatures to his optics, but the other inhabitants were just as fascinating. Mammals and reptiles and insects, oh my! All of the forms of life present on Earth enthralled him, right down to the growing roots of every plant. The green mech had so many city zoo season passes that he’d bought a Rolodex at an office supply store just to keep track of them, and Save the (Whatever) charities around the world sent him enough newsletters to bury a Minibot every month. Wherever he went, no matter the mission, he kept his scanners, optics, and audios wide open to gather as much information about Earth as he could.

Earth was a glorious place for him, but there was a downside to loving nature as much as he did. Hound couldn’t turn his observational habits off.

Ravage was a technimal, a sentient Cybertronian non-bipedal frametype capable of scanning native fauna for his transformation, but also capable of adapting his behavioral programs to the new altmode. Even in combat, even while scouting, Hound had picked up on the changes in Ravage’s behavior. All of the technimal Cassettes’ behaviorisms, really, but the Autobot scout's job actually required studying the enemy's new transformation.

Close study had only made the attraction worse. Hound had been captivated.

Ravage never spoke of it. He never asked if Steeljaw or Ramhorn had picked up on Hound’s intense interest as he had.

Hound never spoke of it. He never mentioned that sometimes he did indeed watch birds, and Ravage hadn't been the only technimal he'd studied. The jaguar Cassette knew, of course, but it was never said aloud that if the other Decepticon technimals wanted to show up at the meeting point some day, well. Hound wouldn’t object. There would be little flapping wings, and the birdlike cock of tiny heads, maybe the scritching of talons, and oh, no. Hound wouldn’t object at all.

Ravage came to Hound for the interfacing, but Hound went to Ravage for the details. Because a frag was just a frag, but for those.

The green Autobot leaned back against the tree and shuddered, but not because of the Decepticon lavishing attention on his jack. Or rather, he shuddered because of the Decepticon’s attention, but only because the touches running slowly down the sleek silvery sides of his extended hardware weren’t hands. Not hands, and not trying to be used like hands.

His lips shaped unsaid words: 'Primus, yes.'

Those details, indeed.

They were amusing, to the cat in his lap, and no bother to include, here. Using his behavioral programs this way was certainly entertaining in this context. He felt almost a naughty kind of indulgence, succumbing to primitive instinct. Ravage stretched luxuriously, arching his back into a bow that seemed impossible for a machine, and indulged.

The backstruts of a less flexible mech would have snapped at the midpoint, but he was built with more tensile cables than solid struts. He merely rustled his tape reels contentedly and worked his paws slowly down the length of the Autobot’s jack like a housecat with a scratching post. Unlike a housecat, however, his claws remained sheathed. Mostly. He was, after all, a living weapon, and a Decepticon. Perhaps a bit kinky as well, but who could blame him? He didn’t have a socket sized big enough to seat a regular-sized mech’s jack into. Magnetic clamps and circuit-snap rings were available for the larger adventurous mechs, but not for the smaller. By frametype alone, he was restricted to external means for satisfying his partners.

Which he did, of course, and took pride in turning his restrictions into a…specialty.

The Autobot whose shivering thighs he perched on grunted, headlights blinking on and off with every curl of his paws as the tips of very sharp claws scratched lightly down thin metal protecting extremely sensitive contact nodes. Normally, a socket would compress the jack’s cover and nestle the nodes into constant contact with the socket wall’s own receivers. This had none of that predictability, and the expected stable transference of charge didn’t sweep back and forth between nodes and receivers, back and forth, traded ever higher. No, Ravage’s paws didn’t stay in place; ever-moving, they pressed a trail of kneading pressure and prickles of transmitted energy downward. Hound’s hardware quivered, and interfacing software bleated alerts and errors and total confusion as nothing went as expected, the socket didn’t clamp around the jack, but the charge rose anyway.

Claws screeeeeked quietly, pulling silent praise to Primus from helplessly working lips. The pressure left faint trails of dulled metal in the claws’ paths, and Ravage’s tape-rustle picked up slightly as he put a bit more push into his scratching. A pinch of pain among the light, sweet pressure on the jack's sheath made protected sensors sing nervously, amping the energy input, chaining the output, until the nodes lit tiny sparks under his careful clawtips. The added tension of potential threat heightened gentle stimulation to an onslaught.

Hound jerked, vents hitching, and the blue optics locked on the Cassette’s every motion brightened steadily toward white. Black paws lifted, the toes flexing apart to tap and retract the claws, taunting with their fleeting presence against thin, silvery metal. So thin, so inadequate if the dangerous claws hooked in and tore, but the Autobot only whimpered soft, desperate lust as he watched. Every stealth-padded toe set down against the scout’s intimate metal and pushed, sliding with agonizing patience down the larger Cybertronian’s jack.

Clawtips caught on an extension join and paused. Tape rustled wickedly, and Ravage arched, yowling just like a housecat finding that perfect angle to sharpened claws and flex back muscles, despite the fact that Hook sharpened his claws and Ravage’s tensile cables were in working order already. He worked padded paws down the jack, paying particular attention to that join. Pick, pick, pick, clawtips plinked off the tiny indent where metal met metal, catching again and again. He gave it special effort, curling his toes to rub the friction pads over the join a few more times, because the air blowing hot and rubber-scented over him came in vast heaves for every animal move he made.

He yawned, showing dental molds sculpted by the very best adaptation programs available. The canines, he felt, were particularly convincing, and the tiny sound of strangled need from above confirmed that as his lips stripteased the shining white teeth, curling up to show them off all the way to the roots. The jack’s contact nodes zapped electricity over his paws as the exaggerated, unneeded yawn ended, and red optics narrowed to pleased slits. Ravage rustled his tape, letting the almost-purr sound send the Autobot’s systems surging higher. He flicked his audio receptors and let his paws drag the entire way down. Down, down, screeeking trails of scraped metal and shimmering, swelling charge following his paws to the base of the jack he was unhurriedly mauling. This jack, Hound’s jack, but Ravage’s own personal scratching post that begged for more.

The scout writhed when the jaguar Cassetticon kneaded his paws at the base enough to dig claws right through the thin metal. The spots of energon that welled up were duly considered, and the sound of a glitching vocalizer accompanied the technimal’s decision to duck his head down to sniff the injuries. He batted at the pink liquid playfully, covering his paws in liquid. Knowing full well Hound was watching his every move, panting as vents failed to cool the body beneath him sufficiently, the black and grey Cassette took a klik to sit back and wash his paws. With his tongue, which was inefficient but sent contained charge burning up Hound’s jack. Ravage’s own jack ached from ambient charge zinging his hindquarters where his tail curled nearest humming hardware.

The power sent suddenly pulsing through the Autobot’s entire pelvic span had the technimal hiding smug self-satisfaction by licking his right paw clean and using it to bathe his face. His audios flipped, listening to the crackle of nodes conducting among themselves. It had nowhere to go, and so the energy built up and up, cycling through the hardware as Hound’s body pushed more and more in. Too much, crackling in strained need to snap free.

A little more, perhaps.

Another pass of his paw over his head, as if that would actually clean him, and Ravage rose to all fours again. He stretched upward, reversing his previous arch until he nearly bent double at the middle. Even with his optics half-lidded, he saw how the Autobot’s hands seized, the fingers burying themselves to the knuckle in the dirt beside grey thighs to keep from reaching for him. It inspired Ravage to extend the torment just that much further. With a champ of his teeth -- Hound’s whimper was most gratifying -- he arched back the opposite way, hindquarters up and front paws stretched out straight before himself. That put his forelegs on either side of Hound’s jack, and he licked idly at the tiny injuries he’d left at the base.


Ravage tilted his head just enough to eye the Autobot slyly. The blue optics had blown completely white, but for once the scout wasn’t observing him. Instead, Hound’s head had slammed back into the tree trunk. He stared blindly straight ahead, mouth gaping open and hands clutching feebly at the ground. The contact nodes under the sheath of the Autobot’s jack glowed hot enough to heat the thin metal, and Ravage’s tape rustled amusement as the technimal rose from his stretch to see the silvery jack spotted with dots of orange. So much charge, with no socket to accept it and let it course over circuits and wires in one lovely snap of overload.

Curious cat that he was acting the part of, the Cassetticon took the time to taste every dot. Who knew if the flavor changed as the color deepened to fiery red, after all?

Hound’s hips jerked at every savoring lick from the technimal’s tongue, and the static white noise accompanied the rustle of tape. How the Autobot suffered. Ravage’s chuckle was subsonic, thrumming thin metal like a drum. Intakes sobbed huge gasps of air as that vibrated the nodes that much more.

When Ravage inevitably found and lingered over the last node, letting his teeth skreeeel on the metal just to gift the nodes -- bless them, the sweetest torture -- with yet more pressure, the lap he stood in rattled hard enough to make footing treacherous. Hound’s mouth had closed, the scout’s jaw clenched tightly as his hips twisted and bucked, held as still as possible but almost out of his control. Blue-white optics had shut off, and the hands had torn through the dirt into fists. His fingertips would leave dents in the palms, Ravage knew, and the Cassetticon magnanimously decided to bring the mech’s torment to a close.

It had nothing to do with the way his own jack wanted to extend, of course. He took pride in his ability as a lover. Driving the large mech to complete distraction took precedence over his own needs. Hound would take care of him any way he liked either way, but Ravage preferred to see the Autobot overload first. It was such a pretty sight. He found it satisfying on a deeper level than an overload, perhaps because, normally, technimals found it a difficult feat to achieve. Once the mech’s body had gone limp and oversensitive with released energy, then he could tease out a second overload easier.

Hound would wind up quickly, with the right incentive. Some kitten-play, maybe: rabbit-punching the Autobot’s forearm and growling as Ravage mock-fought the Autobot’s hand. The Cassette could gnaw a couple knuckles, mouth the mech’s hand, wrap his forelegs around the mech’s arm and kick with his hind paws until Hound shivered again. Then he could curl his back, bounce his hindquarters up, and bury his jack into that perfect-sized wrist socket. He knew it had been custom-installed for his use, the walls always eager to clamp shut and hold him, surge with him, and the technimal occasionally wondered what excuse the scout had used to get that modification done.

“Prrrt?” Hound shuddered, forcing his optics to focus. That sound. It was so different than anything on Cybertron, so organic, so much like Earth, and the purring undertone of contentment vibrated an area of his body already lit up blazingly oversensitive to every change. “Mrrrr.”

Ravage looked up at him, blinking innocently. When he was sure the Autobot was paying attention, the jaguar Cassette turned and twined lithely around the extended jack he’d been meticulously working over. The accompanying mew was unnecessary. It was almost drowned out by Hound’s scream, anyway, and the lightening-crack of charge suddenly grounded.

No talking, no factions, no excuses -- just release.

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