Proposal 1/2

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

TFA Inamorato AU
Lugnut/Strika, Prowl, Lockdown, Chromia, Blackout/Barricade, Arcee
PG-13
no warnings

 

 “And your request is what, Lugnut?” Megatron tried not to sound impatient, but the bomber had been buttering him up for megacycles now. And while praise was nice, there was such a thing as too much of a good thing. 

“Oh.”  Lugnut paused, startled, doubtless out of another string of warm phrases. “I, uh…wanted to ask your permission for something, Lord Megatron!”

Megatron sighed.  Lugnut would ask for permission to do just about anything. It was, he knew, borne from respect, but nonetheless…. Oh well, one of the hidden burdens of leadership.  And Lugnut’s loyalty and combat abilities more than earned him a share of Megatron’s small portion of patience. “Yes.  What? If it is within my power to grant,” well, within reason, but he would never make this offer to any mech but Lugnut, really, knowing that the bomber would be almost categorically incapable of abusing it, “it is yours.”

Lugnut shuffled his feet, his green toes squirming against the pavement.  “I, uh…would like your permission to bond with General Strika, my Lord!”

“Bond?” 

“Yes, my liege.  A permanent spark-linkage—“

“Yes, Lugnut,” he said, testily. “I do know what one is.” An exceedingly bad idea, and one that Megatron would never inflict upon himself.   “With General Strika.”  He blanked his optics for a klik.  NOT an image he wanted. He respected Strika immensely.  Unlike that blasted fool Starscream, who was only good under direct supervision, Strika’s loyalty was unquestioned, her abilities unmatched.  And he’d rather think about her, and appreciate her…that way, thank you very much. 

“Yes, my Lord!” 

He had no objection.  Two of his most loyal?  What objection could he have?  They would be extra-faithful, in fact, for his assent.  It was win-win. “Has she agreed to this?”

Lugnut froze.  “I…uh…thought you would do that for me?”

Megatron blinked.  “I?”   It was…entirely beneath his dignity. “You must ask her,” he said, recovering, he thought, nicely. 

“I-I? But…what if she says no? Megatron, you must order her to bond with me!”  The five optics swirled, panicked. 

Order her to? No.  “Lugnut, you must ask her.”

Lugnut quailed, his toes gouging into the pavement. “But…she might refuse me, my liege!”

“That is a risk you must take, Lugnut.”  He sighed. He couldn’t believe he was saying this.  What horrible things peacetime wrought. He saw another protest bubbling across Lugnut’s face.  “A warrior does not back down from a challenge,” he said, curtly.

Lugnut flinched at the words, then lowered his head. “Yes, my liege.” He stiffened his spine struts.  “I WILL make you proud of me, my Lord, with this exercise in courage.”

Oh. Primus.  “You…do that, Lugnut.”    

 

[***]

Lugnut knew he was boasting when he’d spoken to Megatron.  Ask General Strika, the most beautiful femme ever assembled, to bond with him?  He’d rather face a dozen Omega Supremes.  Single-handed.  Certainly she interfaced with him. Even called him ‘her little Luggies,’ but what did that mean in the face of the deep and eternal bond of a…well…bond? 

He wracked his cortex for ways to approach her and finally realized…his cortex was rather empty in that area.  The femme area.  Mysterious creatures, they were. Beautiful. Entrancing. Alluring. Dangerous.  So, the sensible choice would be, of course, to solicit outside help. Particularly of the femme variety. 

“You cannot tell her of my plan!” he insisted, following Madam Arcee to her private office.  He had at first resisted asking an Autobot but Arcee had…intimate knowledge of General Strika that might prove valuable. And it was, indeed, a positive sign that she immediately saw the need for privacy.  So he trundled after her into her office, the desk tidy, with only a holopic of Ratchet, and an apple-shaped teaching award decorating the ruthlessly functional space. A box stood open on the edge of the blotter. 

“I promise that I won’t say a word,” Arcee murmured. She pointed him into a chair, taking one next to him.  He settled himself awkwardly onto the spindly piece of furniture, lowering his large frame gingerly onto the surface as though he expected it to break.  Arcee leaned over and took one of his claws in hers.  “What is this about, Lugnut?” 

“I…uh…I wish to approach Madam General Strika!”  he said.  Arcee’s hands were tiny compared to his, and for a moment he couldn’t help but imagine those small fingers trailing over Strika’s beautiful armor. 

“About…?” 

“Uhhhhh.”  Lugnut froze. Then realized that if he couldn’t say the words even to Madam Arcee, there was no way he was ready to say them to Strika.

“Lugnut. Is something wrong? Is it bad news?”

“No! No! It is not bad news!” Well, he hoped not.  “I have a question I must ask her.”

“So ask her. She doesn’t bite, Lugnut.”  A wicked flash across her face. “Well, not the bad way, at any rate.” 

Lugnut blinked, a flush of heat rising across his cheeks. “Yes, Madam Arcee. I, uhhh, know that.”  He shifted on the tiny seat, feeling it teeter under his weight.

“You could ask me and I could ask her for you?”

Lugnut was on the brink of accepting her offer when Megatron’s words came back to him. No. As a warrior he must ask her himself. He must face this danger as a hero worthy to serve Lord Megatron. Otherwise, he’d be unworthy to serve either of them.  “I, uhh, I must ask her myself. It is…sensitive.”

“Oh?”  Arcee looked at him, curious. “Is it personal?”

“Very much!”  He tried to restrain himself but found himself blurting, “I would like to ask her to bond with me!” 

“That is sensitive,” Arcee agreed, her face flickering through surprise. “Have you thought about this?”

“Oh yes. For many orbital cycles. But I could not act on such a selfish motive during the war when Megatron needed us.”

“But now…?”

“Yes! But now, maybe she will assent.”  He hoped.  If only he could find a way.

“So…what do you need from me? Time off?”

“I…do not understand femmes, Madam Arcee. I would like some advice how to proceed with the proposal process.”

“Femmes? We’re just the same as any other mech. Well, minus the obvious,” Arcee laughed.  “But if you want some advice?” She sat back.  “A femme, or any mech, too, I suppose, would like to feel that the event is special. Not just the bonding itself but the asking. So you should do your best to make it memorable for her.” 

“Yes. I see!”  Lugnut’s optics spiraled. Then, “Wait. How do I do that?” 

“Well,”  Arcee got up. She always thought better while moving—one of the occupational hazards of teaching.  “You should do things that show you put a lot of effort into planning it.  And maybe get her a little something. Flowers or some jewelry. And compliment her. Though,” she looked over, winking, “I think you’re already pretty good at that.”

“I try very hard!” Lugnut said, earnestly. “What other strategies?”  He frowned—at least, Arcee thought it was a frown. It was very hard to interpret his expressions. “This must be planned for like an ambush!”

Arcee shot him a worried look.  “Ambush? Perhaps not the best analogy.”

Lugnut drooped. That was the only thing he was good at planning. 

The comm rang.  Arcee sighed. “I’m sorry. I have to take this.” Lugnut nodded, pushing himself to his feet. “Come back later, and we can talk more, maybe?” 

[***}

“You hear a lot,” Lugnut said, watching Prowl wipe down glasses with a towel.  This was true.  Ninjas, he knew, were also known for laying crafty traps.  Which is exactly what he needed. “I need some advice about, you know…romance.” He was not entirely comfortable asking an Autobot for such sensitive information but…desperate times. 

Prowl tilted his head, wrinkling his nasal plating.  “I am perhaps not the best expert in the subject,” he said, quietly.

“You know more than me!” 

A reluctant nod.  Yes, well, anyone would count as an expert in romance compared to Lugnut.  “I shall do my best to answer your questions,” he said, as a compromise.  Lugnut had never been anything but a model employee and a considerate coworker.  He deserved whatever  advice and experience Prowl could give.  He just…hoped it worked better for the bomber.

“Okay. Look. Well. I, uhhh, I want to ask Madam General Strika something. Something romantic,” he clarified.  He tried to glower.  Prowl merely nodded, mildly. “And…uh…I don’t know how to be romantic.”

“You should simply be yourself.”

“Madam Arcee suggested flowers, but I do not think know the point of that.  Flowers die and I do not wish to give Madam General Strika dead things.”  He hesitated. “Except enemies.”  

Well, Prowl considered, Lugnut had a point. And he had never understood the need to damage organic plants that way. “You should study what she likes. If she does not care for flowers, what does she like?”

“Combat plans!” Lugnut burst out, eagerly. “And ordnance maps.  And a very precise timetable. And—“

“Those all sound like her professional capacity. What about her life beyond that?” A femme or mech was so much more than their mere job description.  A general, no matter how successful, still had hopes and dreams and fears and worries. 

Lugnut stalled, his face so blank Prowl feared he had offlined, the optics dimming down. “Lugnut?” he asked.

Lugnut’s optics brightened slowly. “I, uhhh, do not know anything like that.” His head drooped. “I thought she liked being a general.”

“It doesn’t mean she doesn’t like it. Just that that’s not all she is. I mean, you’re a warrior, right?”  Prowl moved to start stacking glasses back in their rack. “You are also the head of security here, and Strika’s companion,” he noted with one curious upraised supraorbital ridge, Lugnut’s twitch at that, “and a pit fighter of some renown.”  He waited until Lugnut nodded. “You are all of these things, but not one of them is really all of you. You are larger than these parts.”

Lugnut considered, rubbing his jaw. “I see.  So Madam General Strika is a madam and also a general and also…,” he blinked. “No. Still don’t know.”

“That is why,” Prowl said, patiently, bending to arrange the new shipment of bottles, “you must do research.”

“Research,” the high, sharp voice came over Lugnut’s shoulder.  Chromia ambled over, draping herself over the counter to grab a cube and then hit the mid-grade dispenser.  Prowl frowned at her.  She gave a saucy wink in reply, taking a decidedly undainty slurp from the cube.  “You are talking about The Strike Force, huh?” 

Lugnut glowered. “That is Madam General Strika,” he corrected.  It was, he thought, a clever nickname, and quite suited to Strika’s personality, but he resented that…the probation dancer had come up with it.

“Oh, whatever. Look, Luggage, I’m going to hook you up a little bit, because you’ve hauled creepsters off my chassis more than enough times.”  Chromia perched herself on a stool, crossing her legs. 

“I was only performing my duties,” Lugnut said, half in demurral, half in rebuke. He did his duties.  He had doubts about how…zealous Chromia sometimes was in performing hers.  NOT that he wanted to know.  His job did not entail him seeing behind those closed doors. That was Skywarp’s job. 

“Yeah, I know, but still. I appreciate it.”  Her smile grew sly. “I mean, I can show appreciation to a big strong mech, can’t I?” 

Lugnut stuttered.  

Prowl coughed. “Chromia, do you have any actual advice for him?”

She shot the slim ninjabot a look.  “Of course,” she said, acidly.  “Lugnut. You want to win a femme over? You have to buy her presents.  Expensive ones.” 

“Like what?”  Lugnut considered. There was a nice arms dealer he knew from the Arena.  Maybe he could get her a nice new sidearm? “A bazooka?” What a lovely mod that would be!  He could even get it painted fuchsia, to match her decorative enamel. 

Chromia rolled her optics. “A bazooka? Sure, if you want her to use it on you!”  She took another swig of her cube.  “It has to be something completely useless.  Like jewelry or an annoying exotic pet.  Something that sends a message.”

“That message being that she is useless? I do not want to send that message!” Lugnut’s optics flared, hostile.

“Messages? What messages?” All three of the Inamorato clones appeared, Sunstorm dragging a terrified Skywarp into the room.

Chromia tilted back along the bar, arching her spine along the bar’s back, thrusting her chassis forward.  She smirked under the open admiring ogling of two of the clones.  “Messages of loooooooove,” she snarked. “Lugster here wants to go to the next level with the Strike.” 

“Commitment!” Skywarp gibbered, tugging against Ramjet’s grip. “Terrifying!!”

“The next level!” Sunstorm gushed. “Oh, this will be fabulous! Exactly what this place needs—romance, tenderness, affection.”  He clasped his hands together beneath his chin, optics glowing.

“Affection,” Ramjet snorted. “Completely sickening. I want nothing to do with it.”  He leaned in closer, peering at Lugnut as though he expected the bomber to look different. 

“Lugs wants to know how to pop the question,” Chromia said, flicking a delicate finger around the edge of her glass. 

“Popping!” Skywarp cringed. “Something could break! Someone could get injured!”

“Not the only thing to be popped if all goes well,” Sunstorm said with a sidelong wink.  Chromia laughed. Prowl frowned.  Lugnut blinked all five of his optics.

“Femmes,” Sunstorm said, authoritatively, “like expensive presents.”

“See?” Chromia said. “Told you so.”

“Strika loves material goods,” Ramjet nodded, soberly.  He twisted around, grabbing Skywarp into a headlock.

“Luggage wants to get her a bazooka,” Chromia said.

“Oh, no no no!” Sunstorm said.  “A lady of refinement like Strika deserves something that…enhances her beauty.”

“Like?”  Lugnut was confused. She would look plenty beautiful with an upmodded weapon to him. She was beautiful enough already.

“Like, you know, jewelry, or fancy clothes.”

“A special meal!” Sunstorm added. 

“But not too special,” Skywarp said, his face under Ramjet’s arm. “Exotic eating implements are scary. And dangerous. You could put out an optic!” 

“Is there a reason you’ve dragged Skywarp out of his…workspace?” Prowl asked, eyeing the terrified black jet. 

“Clone bonding,” Sunstorm said, authoritatively. “Togetherness is vital.” 

“Can’t we, uhhhh, practice togetherness safely downstairs?” Skywarp whimpered. “Preferably over comm?”

“No.” Sunstorm said.  “You are getting drunk with us, and that’s final.”

“The most useless, the better!” Ramjet said, ignoring the squirming black jet.  “Strika loves ostentatious display.” 

“Uhhhh, okay.”  Wait, Lugnut thought. Something was wrong here. But they all were giving him the same advice, so…it must be right, right?  And they all knew General Strika from outside the war. Different facets and such.  He wanted to show he saw her as more than a General, too. 

[***]

“This is ridiculous,” Barricade complained, as Blackout rolled off the berth.  “I mean, I get you like this job and all, but…seriously?”

Blackout frowned, the frown of a mech having an uncomfortable choice.  “Yeah but…Lugnut said he needed me to cover for him tonight.”

“It’s not an arena night,” Barricade snapped.  “Too bad on him.”

Blackout inched toward the maintenance facility. “But, he asked.” 

Barricade frowned, trapping the sentence ‘and I’m asking you not to’ somewhere in his vocalizer. Don’t mess with the copter.  Well, you want to mess with the copter, of course, but the fun way.  He knew he had to tread carefully: Blackout loved his job.  Barricade lived in fear that one day there’d be a competition between him and the job and he’d lose.  In fact, that’s what this felt like. Which sucked.  “Yeah I know. Could at least act like you’d rather be here than there though?” Okay, shameless, but, he’d take anything.

Blackout turned, rotors clacking together, and came back to the berth to scoop Barricade up. “No!” Blackout said, earnestly.  “Want to be with you of course.” He squeezed Barricade against him. “Please don’t be upset and stuff?” 

Frag.  Barricade couldn’t steel himself against the copter’s earnest worry. “Not upset,” he said, squirming.  Then stopping, as the squirming started giving him ideas.  “Have time for a quickie?”

“You said that half a megacycle ago! And we did!” 

Oh, right.  Not that Barricade, you know, forgot.  Just that hot copter was hot copter.  And, well, Barricade was Barricade.  “Fine. I’ll just…save it till later or something. Like when you get off work that you shouldn’t be doing because it’s someone else’s turn.”  He pouted. 

“That’s a cool idea,” Blackout said, popping a kiss on his mouth. “Give me something to look forward to and stuff.” 

Well, Barricade couldn’t argue with that logic.  And the idea that he was the prize of working at this job did send a warm happy glow through him that had—for once—nothing to do with interfacing. “Give you something to miss, too,” he said, ducking in for a long, glossa-tangling kiss. 

Blackout broke the kiss with reluctance, optics clouded, growling softly. “Don’t gotta make this so hard for me, you know.” He put Barricade back down.

Barricade grinned, finally. “Yes. Yes I do.” 

Blackout caught the grin, a matching one growing slowly across his own face.  “So good to me, Barricade,” he said.

Yeah, the feeling was mutual. More than.  “Hey, uhhh, how ‘bout I come with you?”

The copter’s optics lit up. “Really?  You want to?”

Barricade shifted. “Yeah, well, you know.  Want to keep an optic on you.”  Plus, sitting around in the cube bored and missing Blackout kinda sucked.   But the moment of sentiment kind of galled him.  A quick recovery.  “You know, I drink free while you’re on duty.” 

[***]

 “Vhut is it, Lugnut?” Strika said. It had been a long day going over invoices.  A new vendor had dropped off a crate of new sex toys that needed to be inventoried and then parceled out to the various pleasuremechs.  Not including the free samples she intended to keep for herself. For…quality control purposes, of course. 

Lugnut gawped at the colorful assemblage of stuff spread over her desk. This was, uhhh, not the romantic atmosphere he was hoping for.  Good thing, he thought, he’d planned out the rest of the evening.  “I, uhhh, was hoping I could…get dinner with you tonight?”

Strika looked up. “Vhe can get something vrom ze bar, yes. Is good idea.”

Lugnut shifted on his feet. “I meant, ummm, a bit more…,” he shrugged. “You and me? Alone?” 

“Vhe can be alone.” She winked, holding up a sex toy—pink and infused with glitter. “Vhe could be…werry alone.”

“I…uhhhh….” Lugnut’s processor went blank, his core temp boosting up at the thought. No. Focus. This was…much more important.  His spike did not agree, but…he wrestled it into submission. “I made, uhhh, reservations.”  He had called in an old debt with Bonecrusher, who had opened his café front for one special night.  He had meekly explained the purpose of the dinner, before Bonecrusher had chased him out with knives, telling him not to show his trapjaw face until he had Strika with him.

Bonecrusher would be mad if he showed up without General Strika.  This was no small concern.

“Rezervations?” Strika echoed.  “Vhe eat someplaze?”

Yes. It was the best he could do: an old favor called in on Bonecrusher.  He’d pretty much nodded dumbly at whatever the mine destroyer suggested for the menu until Bonecrusher had thrashed his tail and thrown him out, telling him to shut up and bring someone with taste next time.  Which he presumed was General Strika. “Yes!”

“Vhy?”

“I thought we might just want to, you know…get away for a bit. You never leave here.”

Strika gave a stern frowning look around the office. “Yes. Iz good thought.” She patted Lugnut’s claw. “You are good to think zo of my velfare, Lugnut.”

He beamed. This was a good omen. They had given him good advice.  The promise crystal burned happily in his storage compartment like a hopeful star.

Comments

[caiusmajor.livejournal.com]

Eee, Lugnut is so very, very cute! And stupid, yes, although I suspect he should have stuck to his instincts about the bazooka. XD

[eaten-by-bears.livejournal.com]

This is hilarious. Nobody should ever listen to Ramjet.