Fic - Masquerade
Title: Masquerade
Continuity: G1
Rating: NC-17
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Jazz/Mirage
Word Count: 5354
Warnings: Dub-Con, BDSM, Roleplay, Forced Overloads, dark, sticky
Summary: Special Ops need to be prepared for everything, Jazz takes the training of his mechs very seriously.
Disclaimer: Transformers and all related stuff still doesn't belong to me :(
Notes: Originally posted Here on tfanonkink
And written for the following two prompts: One and two.
And lastly: *deap breath* yeah, I deanon'd. Primus help me.
Something isn’t right.
I still my chassis, straining my sensors to their limits as I rerun my last accessible memory file.
“Nice of the ‘cons to give us a day off for once isn’t it so we can relax? Anyway, I’m going to head to the washracks then go get some energon, you coming?”
“I’ll drop our report off with Prowl, I don’t know how long I’ll be, you go on ahead Blue.”
“No need, I’m right here.” Bluestreak flared his armour in surprise, his wings hitching upwards when the mech that had been approaching us spoke up. I had heard him coming, but hadn’t been able to identify who it was over the sound of Blue’s chatter.
“Jazz wants to speak with you.” Prowl said as he took my datapad, waving Blue away so he could go clean up.
“Very well.” I inclined my helm as Prowl subspaced the pad and continued on to wherever he was going.
I had debated going to the washracks first, but in the end decided to go and speak to Jazz before I cleaned up, he never summoned me unless it was important.
And then?
Nothing.
Keeping my optics offline, I carefully disable my normal booting protocols, so that my systems online as slowly and quietly as possible. I lock my joints to avoid tugging at my restraints, the cold unmoving bands of metal around my wrists holding them above my head, and more around my ankles, chains looping up over my thighs.
“I know you’re awake, pretty one.”
I know that voice.
Fear flares in the depth of my spark before I quash it, falling back onto my training. Emotions are a weakness. Weaknesses will be exploited.
“Ricochet.”
He’s awake.
He hides it well, but for a trained observer it is there.
The slight shift in his plating as his sensor net onlines, the smallest twitch and jingle of chains as he works out that he is restrained, the almost insignificant movement of his helm as he strains to pick out anything which might give away where he is.
“I know you’re awake, pretty one.” I purr as I move from my place in the corner, stepping forward till my chassis is flush against his back.
He stills for the barest moment, plating instinctively clamping in to his frame before he relaxes.
Good, good. He remembers me well enough to fear me. To fear what I might do.
“Ricochet.” His voice is like liquid metal, smooth and rolling, bringing to mind the Towers of Iacon that were his birthright. We’re a long way from such decadence now.
I laugh, the rumbling of my engine rolling through him where we are pressed together. He remains still, knowing that moving will only spur me on.
Not that he has anywhere to go.
“What do you want Decepticon?” His voice is cold, uncompromising, hate and fear blending into one as he addresses me.
Such a sweet word; Decepticon, all the things an Autobot shouldn’t be, cannot be.
I have to repress a shudder as he presses against my back, engine revving as he laughs.
I wonder at times if they ever suspect what Jazz hides, the darkness in his spark that could rival any Decepticon.
If they understand what he could do, what he would do, if our Lord, our Prime only asked.
Often we have sat and listened to the common soldiers speaking, about their disgust over the things they have seen Decepticons do. Would that they knew that the mech sat beside them would find such perverse pleasure in joining in. What would they say if they knew that the only thing holding him back was his loyalty to our Prime?
And I?
I am his student and apprentice. He has shaped me from the highborn noble that I was, to a cold-sparked killer.
But even after so long there are still things to learn, skills to hone. Training we call it. If they knew, the rest would call it torture. But it is what has kept us, kept me, online through many vorns of undercover missions.
I boot up my optics, lifting my helm from where it is hanging almost touching my chest. Whatever he wants, I won’t make it easy.
“What do you want Decepticon?”
“I want many things.” I trace a hand up his arm, around his wrist, trailing over the cuff holding him. “What do you want?” He doesn’t answer as I move around his frame. It doesn’t matter. I know what he wants.
Golden optics narrow at me as I trace my fingers around the elaborate vents adorning his helm. So pretty. Pretty things shouldn’t be left on display, unused and unloved.
“You want me to release you.” His jaw tightens; he knows it is not so easy. “Yes, you know this game we are playing.”
We are at an impasse. Neither will give. But the advantage is all mine.
“I want information for your freedom, pretty one.” Nothing more, nothing less. “I’m sure you remember what I can do if you refuse.” This time I do smirk as he fails to suppress the instinctive recoil away from me, the chains around his limbs jerking. Oh yes, he remembers.
What do I want?
I want to get out of here. But he already knows that.
His name, his operations codename, Meister, is at the forefront of my processor, all I need to do... but no. That’s the coward’s way out. I haven’t needed to use a safeword in vorns. For all that he is, I trust him. I know I shouldn’t, I’ve seen into the depths of his spark, as he has seen mine. I shouldn’t trust him. But I do.
I narrow my optics as he slides around my frame, all sinuous grace, even with the heavier armour of his Decepticon alter ego adorning his chassis.
“You want me to release you.” I bite back my response, stopping the impulse to shake his hand away from my face as black fingers map out my vents. “Yes, you know this game we are playing.” His voice is a smooth rumble, slightly lower pitch than normal; all traces of his carefree Polyhex twang are gone, replaced with a harsh Kaon accent.
Yes, I know the game. I know it all too well. And the odds are stacked against me.
“I want information for your freedom, pretty one. I’m sure you remember what I can do if you refuse.” The smile on his faceplates is predatory, I recoil before I can catch myself, the chains rattling above my helm, but there is nowhere for me to go, no way to escape.
I refuse to look up at him, like a slave looking up at their master. Such a role reversal, for I am normally a head taller than him, but this is just part of the game; power, control, intimidation, dominance.
Yes, I remember.
He shifts, testing the bonds that keep him on his knees. He won’t get out. He knows that. But there is always that voice in the back of his processor that says this might be the time I’ve forgotten a lock, left something loose, that this might be the time he gets free.
I step closer, a claw raising his chin till he meets my optics, golden yellow to burning amber. He averts his gaze first. My engine hums in pleasure; it took a long time to teach him that submission is not necessarily a weakness.
I lean in, kneeling in front of him, one clawed hand resting lightly over his closed interface panel, a warning of what he stands to lose should he choose to defy me. “All I want is the codes for the Ark security room.”
He twists his helm out of my grasp before he glares at me, optics narrowing as he sneers, looking like the haughty noble who has not gotten his way that he was before he came to me.
I let my claws dig deeper, paint flaking, he winces as they bite into the metal, gouging furrows. “Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider?”
I almost laugh at the way his jaw clenches, hands curling round the chains as he stares at me, through me, warring with his own processor. “No.”
A sharp claw under my chin tilts my helm back, it is that or let it slice into vulnerable cabling in my neck. I meet his optics, the twin gems glowing like embers, burning me to my spark. His mouthplates quirk into a cold smile when I drag my gaze away.
Now is not the time to fight. In this game of wits and power I will need all my strength, both physical and mental. Better to submit where I can. When I can.
“All I want is the codes for the Ark security room.” Claws tap against my interface panel, a stark warning. But what he asks for is not something I can give.
I hiss as he flexes his hand, claws biting into the malleable metal. “Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider?”
Yes. No. I want...
What I want is not important. Only what I do. I will not betray my Prime. “No.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” His hands roam over my armour, tracing transformation seams, gently tugging at exposed wiring. Giving me time to dwell on what he can do, to realise just how vulnerable I am.
But I already know that. It is a well rehearsed play, but that knowledge doesn’t help me as claws trace the edge of my interface panel, apprehension building in my spark. I know exactly what he is capable of.
“Open up.” The sharp digits tap against the armour. “Or I’ll do it for you.”
“Good mech.” I croon as he releases the latches on his interface panel, and mechs used to say that it was impossible to get the Noble class to follow orders.
I slip a finger into his valve, laughing as his valve walls clench involuntarily, trying to remove the intrusion. He knows better than to try and move away though. I flex my finger, feeling the tip of my claw scrape along a dry wall. Yet he remains silent and still. Sometimes I think I’ve taught him too well, that it was better when I first started training him for what he could encounter in our line of work, when pain was an unknown and everything would draw out such beautiful sounds.
I add a second finger as soon as I feel lubricant starting to gather. No matter how much he might not want this some things are too deeply coded to change, some reactions too instinctive to resist.
My free hand traces across one sculpted cheek as I curl my fingers, letting my claws brush across sensor nodes, pain and pleasure all bound into one.
He hisses, the corners of his mouth twitching into a grimace, even as I trail my hand down his plating to his slowly pressurising spike, stroking slowly, gently, letting charge build in his systems without giving him release.
His composure is starting to crack; optics bright and systems humming with excess energy, he is fighting not to follow his frames urges, to rock into my hands.
“I only need the codes.”
I growl at his quiet murmur beside my audial unit, his hands never stopping their movement, the fingers in my valve stretching me, but barely moving, and his hand on my spike, loose, gentle, just enough to send a flicker of pleasure through my systems, to make my frame crave more, to need more.
I let my helm tip backwards, staring at the ceiling; he already knows that I will not give in so easily. Even for him it is hard nowadays to make me fail whatever test he has devised.
I yelp as he nips at the cables in my neck, the short sharp burst of pain bringing my optics back down to glare at him. He just grins back, drawing his claws along the inside of my valve, managing to draw a quiet whimper from me before I cut it off.
“You’re so pretty like this, so thoroughly debauched; I didn’t think Nobles would ever dare to debase themselves so in front of a common mech.” His hand traces up my body, marking a pathway in my own lubricants, a faint hint of energon mixed in.
I don’t answer as he runs his fingers around my lips. “You want me to let you overload don’t you?”
His optics suddenly light up, glowing in anticipation as he tilts his helm at me. “I’ve just had an idea, pretty one. I’m not sure you’ll like it, but I will, and that’s what matters.”
I laugh lightly as his optics flicker at my words, his armour trembling slightly, and not just from arousal. I can almost taste the trepidation, as I move around behind him, rooting through my box of toys.
I’ve always wanted to try this, to see how long he lasts before he begs for mercy.
“Easy pretty one, relax.” His armour flares in agitation as he is forced to wait to see what I have planned, his helm twisting to try and keep me in his view as I make my way back across the room.
Wrapping my arms around his chassis I nuzzle his neck, one hand gently stroking his spike, slowly but surely heightening the charge running around his frame.
I laugh as he twitches, gears in his hips whining in protest as he stills his movement, refusing to give in to the pleasure, refusing to lose his focus.
I smirk, he’ll lose his composure soon enough, I have plenty of time.
He yelps, hips jerking away as I wrap my free hand around the base of his spike, the cold metal of the inhibitor I had been holding startling him as it expands with a whirr of gears to encircle his spike, tightening into a solid ring.
I can’t help but make a sound of surprise as cool metal settles around my spike, tightening almost to the point of being painful; while his other hand on my spike doesn’t relent as he drapes himself around me. “Codes?”
“Go frag yourself.” I snarl.
He doesn’t miss a beat as he replies, “Why would I do that when I can frag you?” The click of his retracting panel is loud in the small room, his spike pressurising as soon as he frees it, the hard length pressing into my back.
He leans over my shoulder, one hand tilting my helm backwards, forcing me to meet his gaze, before he presses a quick kiss to my lips, moving away before I can think to try and bite him. Just managing to catch him and draw energon is often worth all the pain it brings.
He laughs as he dances away, one finger waggling playfully at me before he crouches down, hands roaming before he deftly unlocks the chains keeping me on my knees. Grabbing a handful of chain above me I haul myself to my feet, lashing out in a quick snap kick aimed at his helm as soon as I am standing.
He is quicker than I anticipated, managing to stand again so that my foot slams into his chest instead where he promptly catches it and then tugs.
I vaguely realise he has grabbed my other leg as my processor filters out the pain from my arms, all my weight being redistributed onto them. I don’t get a chance to recover before he steps closer, hips pressing against mine.
I wince as claws find gaps in my plating, digging in to the sensitive wiring beneath before he pushes himself into my valve, stretching the walls which have begun to relax without anything inside. Each thrust drawing a hiss from me as the angle allows him to stimulate sensors he scratched earlier, each snap of his hips creating a burning friction beneath the pleasure.
Reaching around him I unhook the chains that run from his ankles and over his thighs, keeping him kneeling before me. I expect the foot that kicks out towards me as he hauls himself to his feet using the chains from the ceiling.
He snarls as I grab his ankle, a quick tug sweeping him off his feet, a cry of pain escaping him as his weight abruptly ends up on his arms as the chains pull taut. A good thing the hooks I used in the ceiling can take the weight of a shuttle, one lithe little noble isn’t going to cause any trouble for them.
Tightening my arms around his thighs, claws digging into seams between his armour to anchor my hold I line myself up, pushing into the warmth of his valve. Static crackling where our chassis meet as the charge I have been building in him discharges to me, arching between us, tingling over sensors.
Starting to thrust into the tight heat he can do nothing but wrap his hands around the chains and lock his legs around my waist, each movement drawing a hiss from his vocaliser, his cries mingling with the clang of our hips and rattle of chains.
“You’re so tight; I can feel every sensor node.” I purr as my overload starts to roll through me, warnings scrolling in front of my optics about the accumulating charge.
It takes me all my will power to pause, spike buried deep in his valve, letting him writhe as he whimpers. “Are you forgetting something?” I ask, my hips twitching at the effort it takes to hold myself back.
He’s close; I can feel it, his engine rumbling as his frame shudders, the vibrations passing into my chassis as I shake my helm.
“Oh I think you are forgetting something.” He prompts again, his words lacing into static for a moment as I roll my hips as best I can in the position he is holding me in.
“Not that I’d tell you.”
“And here I thought you wanted to overload, thought you wanted to discharge all that lovely static that’s building up.” He croons.
Bucking my hips into his I decide to humour him “Yes.”
“So you do want to overload. If I let you will you give me my codes?” he says as he starts moving again, slow, shallow thrusts that make me try and move to meet each one.
“Not likely.” I say in between involuntary whimpers that are escaping my vocaliser.
“We’ll see.” He says with a malicious grin as he settles back into his previous rhythm, strokes deep and fast, ramping up the charge. “We’ll see.”
I overload with a groan, the discharge sending my pretty little noble into a strut aching overload as he goes limp for a moment. Letting go of his legs I use the moment of disorientation as his systems recalibrate to secure his ankles again.
He looks even prettier like this, so thoroughly used. My transfluid mixing with his lubricant, dripping out of his valve, to stain his thighs and pool on the floor, and his spike, still hard as my toy stops him from releasing his own transfluid, keeping him in a state of arousal.
“So, want to give me my codes now?” I ask as his optics power back up, still clouded by need. I expect nothing of the sort as he glares at me, but that is all the better for my plan.
“No? Too bad.” I say as I retrieve something from my box of toys, his optics widening as I circle back around.
I think he’s finally getting an idea of what I plan to do with him.
He wouldn’t.
He would.
No, no, no, no. Slag it all.
I twist away as he approaches
He laughs at my attempts to avoid him, his knees pushing between mine, baring my valve.
I whimper as he pushes a replica spike to my entrance. I don’t want him to do this. Not really. What I want is to lie back on a soft berth, let my hands roam over black and white plating, look into a sapphire visor. Not this mockery of my commander. All harsh red and black contours and unflinching amber gaze.
His moment of hesitation passes, he was waiting for me to stop him if I needed to. But he taught me to never give in, he created this defiance built it up from nothing.
He starts to push it in, so slowly, stretching me till error codes start to pile up in front of my optics. The only sound, apart from my harsh ventilations, is the clicks and whirrs as the gears in my valve adjust. They are made to take any size, but there is always a limit, and this is pushing it.
“Shhhhh. Nearly done.” I lean into the hand that brushes over my cheek, anything to take my processor off the burning stretch.
“There we go. Not so bad is it?” He asks, a soft clink and pressure letting me know he has activated its magnets, adhering it to my armour, keeping it in place.
He jerks as I activate it, sending vibrations rippling through his valve, his fans kicking into a higher gear as he squirms, trying to dislodge it.
I save several image captures of my pretty noble to a file he doesn’t even know I have. They make good reminders for when I have to send him out, give me something to process that doesn’t have to include cute and cuddly and all the sap that most of the Autobots demand if I take them to the berth.
Wandering over to my desk I collapse onto my chair, legs thrown over the side as I activate my terminal, I have work that needs to be done. Tilting the viewscreen, just enough that he can see that I am working on reports for Prowl and Prime, I start to type.
Most mechs, if asked what they would prefer, would probably choose this over some torture that utilises only pain. But I don’t that many of them realise that the worst torture is one that isn’t just physical, but mental, blending reality into confusion.
I manage to resist turning to watch as his vents hitch, electricity crackling around him as he overloads again.
I whine as the charge doesn’t fully dissipate, starting to build again almost immediately. How long will he let this go on for? Until my systems start shutting down to protect themselves? I wouldn’t put it past him.
At least I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is costing him to remain at his desk and working on whatever he is writing up.
Every movement I make causes a reaction in my frame, overwhelming my processor with jumbled signals. My arms hurt, my core temperature is above accepted operating parameters, my valve is stretched tight, gears at their widest setting, every moment jolting sensors and I need to overload.
Not the release of charge, pleasurable as it is, but a true release. And I need it before sensors become too hypersensitive, garbling signals, turning everything into pain.
Once that happens who knows what I’ll do. What I might say to stop it.
“Please?” The query is so quiet I almost miss it underneath the sounds of his arousal.
Finally, it took him long enough.
Sliding out of my chair I pad over to him, a smile curling up my faceplates as I take in the lubricant escaping his valve, smearing across his plating, spreading around him as he shudders, his vocalisations half pleasure, half pain.
“Please what?”
He turns his helm aside, optics cast down a long whine escaping him.
“Please what?” I ask again, running my fingers along a transformation seam. He arches into my touch, static sending a jolt through my system, pooling in my interface array.
“Come on, please what?”
He finally answers, his voice static laden. “Enough.”
I run a hand between his legs, my plating cool against the burning of his armour. “So tell me the codes to the security room.”
A static infused hiss is all I receive.
So, he isn’t as desperate as he makes himself out to be. But that would just be another trick in his arsenal, to make the torturer believe he is broken.
“Not going to talk then?”
I brush my fingers across his helm, trailing over his lips, before moving away. If he doesn’t want to talk I can oblige him. Making sure my comm. line is clear just in case it is needed, I grab something I had left out, I had a feeling I might need it.
“Since you don’t want to talk, you won’t mind this, will you?” I don’t give him a chance to answer as I force the gag into his mouth, muffling his whimpers.
Pulling the chair forward from the desk I sink down into the padded mesh, my optics roving over his chassis, drinking in the exquisite sight.
The trembling plating, his hands clenching the chains like a lifeline, the whirr of his fans trying to cool his overheated system, almost drowning out the hitching rumble of his engine.
And the way he arches backwards, helm thrown back, optics almost white as he screams into the gag, shaking as he overloads again.
I wonder how many he is up to now. I haven’t been keeping count. Perhaps I should have done, make it into a little record that I could try and have him beat some time in the future.
He’s watching me like I am the best entertainment he’s had for a while, a cube of energon at his elbow as he slowly works his spike, his other hand buried two fingers deep in his valve.
My pleasure, my agony, my helplessness turning him on as he enjoys the control, the absolute power he is holding.
I shake my helm. I’m loosing control.
Not of the situation, for I never held that. But of myself, of my processor; data lost, incorrectly filed, fragmented, and with it my ability to concentrate, to anticipate, to outwit my foe.
I keen, voice muffled, as he licks his fingers, trailing them suggestively over his thigh. Showing me what he can do.
What I can’t do.
I can feel the charge in my systems nearing breaking point again, my chassis twitching as it hits, a rush of heat, ripping through my circuits.
The warm rush of slowly kindled pleasure is long gone, now it is a towering inferno, blasting through me, leaving only embers that are swiftly set alight once more.
His optics are locked on my frame as he tumbles into another overload with a muffled scream, his frame jerking in its bonds. I overload, letting my body relax into the mesh, sated.
My mouth quirks up into a smirk as he stares back at me, gaze unfocussed. His ventilations short and sharp as he draws in enough air, but it isn’t helping, the very air in the room is warm, heated by his exertions.
I frown as his optics dull to grey. His systems are finally shutting down from the strain, delicate electronics being cut off to protect them from being blown out by the charge in his frame.
He must have shut his automated warning protocols down some time ago and now he’s starting to pay the price. Fail-safes he can’t override are finally kicking in to protect his more delicate components.
I wonder how much of his extra processing power has been shut down?
I think I’m screaming. At least I would be if I could.
Anything, anything at all to stop this, anything to bring about some relief.
Can’t focus, can’t think. Need to be calm. Need to relax.
Impossible. It is burning. Like a fire in my fuel lines, setting my sensors aflame.
I’m standing on the edge of a chasm.
Want to jump, let oblivion take me, but I’m held back.
Why?
Is this not enough? This Agony. Pleasure? Pain? Relentless, merciless, scorching me inside and out.
Please
Please stop, enough.
Please.
Not alone. Rescuer? Torturer? Who?
Whispers in the darkness, soothing, calming.
Help?
The voice... it wants... what?
Yes.
Anything.
My fingers trace around his face, releasing the gag, his static filled wail echoing around the room.
“Please, please, stop, enough. Please.” Begging, he’s reduced to begging as I lean in, his vents blowing heated air across my frame.
“Codes to the Ark security centre soldier.” My voice is soft, calming, something to rely upon, something to trust.
“Four-two-six-seven-seven-four-one-five.”
“Just that?” I wrap a hand around his spike, cooling the heated metal, a solid reprieve in his spinning world, a grounding touch amongst the pleasure and pain.
“Yessss.” He repeats the code like a mantra, like it is his last link to reality.
Perhaps in his mind it is.
But no matter, he is so delightfully delicious like this.
So utterly helpless.
I wrap a hand around his neck, ghosting over energon and coolant lines, how easy it would be to give him relief in this way. But then who would I play with?
And that’s not even counting how I’d explain his extinguishing to Prime.
Instead I let my hands roam, revelling in the responses; he’s so beyond comprehending that I’m even here, all he is doing is feeling, his frame responding like a puppet to my guiding hands.
I tilt my helm, if he was still coherent enough to answer me; I know he’d say he wants this.
My valve is already open, waiting, letting me sink onto his spike with a moan. Frag, but he feels good.
His chassis is alive with electricity, arching between our frames wherever we touch, sending pleasure shooting from my valve straight to my spark with every movement I make.
Slag, I should have tried this before. I can already feel my charge building to dangerous levels.
I laugh as I wrap my hand around the inhibitor; sending the codes for it to unclasp, letting him, finally, finally attain the release he needs. I groan as my valve is filled by his transfluid, his vocaliser cutting out with a static screech as he overloads again, his frame sagging, strut-less in his bonds.
I ease myself of his spike and shut the vibrator down before it can do any damage, ramping up his charge again when he’s offline with no way to deal with it except by blowing fuses isn’t on my list of things to explain to Ratchet.
Unhooking the chains I heave him up into my arms, glad again for the light alloys that make up his armour as I settle him into my berth.
I online with a groan, every joint aching, the sensors under my armour still hypersensitive, making the arm thrown across my abdominal plating appear to weigh far more than normal.
Peering down at the third limb I have gained I am glad to see that the red is gone, replaced by the smooth white worn by his Autobot persona. Although at times I’m still not sure who is the real Jazz.
“M’raj?” It isn’t often I get to see him like this, relaxed, trusting. His normal operating protocols would have him going from recharging to holding a knife at my throat before the rest of his systems fully boot up. One warm sapphire optic brightens as I twist my helm to regard him, “You did good ‘Raj, now get some more recharge.”
I did? I can’t remember; my processor has only corrupted memory files for the last part. “I did?” I wince as I speak, my vocaliser needing more time to heal than it has been given.
“Mmmmm, gave me codes that were in use two years ago.”
I settle back into his arms, far more secure in the knowledge that had that been real then my allies, my Prime, would still be safe.
Continuity: G1
Rating: NC-17
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Jazz/Mirage
Word Count: 5354
Warnings: Dub-Con, BDSM, Roleplay, Forced Overloads, dark, sticky
Summary: Special Ops need to be prepared for everything, Jazz takes the training of his mechs very seriously.
Disclaimer: Transformers and all related stuff still doesn't belong to me :(
Notes: Originally posted Here on tfanonkink
And written for the following two prompts: One and two.
And lastly: *deap breath* yeah, I deanon'd. Primus help me.
Something isn’t right.
I still my chassis, straining my sensors to their limits as I rerun my last accessible memory file.
“Nice of the ‘cons to give us a day off for once isn’t it so we can relax? Anyway, I’m going to head to the washracks then go get some energon, you coming?”
“I’ll drop our report off with Prowl, I don’t know how long I’ll be, you go on ahead Blue.”
“No need, I’m right here.” Bluestreak flared his armour in surprise, his wings hitching upwards when the mech that had been approaching us spoke up. I had heard him coming, but hadn’t been able to identify who it was over the sound of Blue’s chatter.
“Jazz wants to speak with you.” Prowl said as he took my datapad, waving Blue away so he could go clean up.
“Very well.” I inclined my helm as Prowl subspaced the pad and continued on to wherever he was going.
I had debated going to the washracks first, but in the end decided to go and speak to Jazz before I cleaned up, he never summoned me unless it was important.
And then?
Nothing.
Keeping my optics offline, I carefully disable my normal booting protocols, so that my systems online as slowly and quietly as possible. I lock my joints to avoid tugging at my restraints, the cold unmoving bands of metal around my wrists holding them above my head, and more around my ankles, chains looping up over my thighs.
“I know you’re awake, pretty one.”
I know that voice.
Fear flares in the depth of my spark before I quash it, falling back onto my training. Emotions are a weakness. Weaknesses will be exploited.
“Ricochet.”
He’s awake.
He hides it well, but for a trained observer it is there.
The slight shift in his plating as his sensor net onlines, the smallest twitch and jingle of chains as he works out that he is restrained, the almost insignificant movement of his helm as he strains to pick out anything which might give away where he is.
“I know you’re awake, pretty one.” I purr as I move from my place in the corner, stepping forward till my chassis is flush against his back.
He stills for the barest moment, plating instinctively clamping in to his frame before he relaxes.
Good, good. He remembers me well enough to fear me. To fear what I might do.
“Ricochet.” His voice is like liquid metal, smooth and rolling, bringing to mind the Towers of Iacon that were his birthright. We’re a long way from such decadence now.
I laugh, the rumbling of my engine rolling through him where we are pressed together. He remains still, knowing that moving will only spur me on.
Not that he has anywhere to go.
“What do you want Decepticon?” His voice is cold, uncompromising, hate and fear blending into one as he addresses me.
Such a sweet word; Decepticon, all the things an Autobot shouldn’t be, cannot be.
I have to repress a shudder as he presses against my back, engine revving as he laughs.
I wonder at times if they ever suspect what Jazz hides, the darkness in his spark that could rival any Decepticon.
If they understand what he could do, what he would do, if our Lord, our Prime only asked.
Often we have sat and listened to the common soldiers speaking, about their disgust over the things they have seen Decepticons do. Would that they knew that the mech sat beside them would find such perverse pleasure in joining in. What would they say if they knew that the only thing holding him back was his loyalty to our Prime?
And I?
I am his student and apprentice. He has shaped me from the highborn noble that I was, to a cold-sparked killer.
But even after so long there are still things to learn, skills to hone. Training we call it. If they knew, the rest would call it torture. But it is what has kept us, kept me, online through many vorns of undercover missions.
I boot up my optics, lifting my helm from where it is hanging almost touching my chest. Whatever he wants, I won’t make it easy.
“What do you want Decepticon?”
“I want many things.” I trace a hand up his arm, around his wrist, trailing over the cuff holding him. “What do you want?” He doesn’t answer as I move around his frame. It doesn’t matter. I know what he wants.
Golden optics narrow at me as I trace my fingers around the elaborate vents adorning his helm. So pretty. Pretty things shouldn’t be left on display, unused and unloved.
“You want me to release you.” His jaw tightens; he knows it is not so easy. “Yes, you know this game we are playing.”
We are at an impasse. Neither will give. But the advantage is all mine.
“I want information for your freedom, pretty one.” Nothing more, nothing less. “I’m sure you remember what I can do if you refuse.” This time I do smirk as he fails to suppress the instinctive recoil away from me, the chains around his limbs jerking. Oh yes, he remembers.
What do I want?
I want to get out of here. But he already knows that.
His name, his operations codename, Meister, is at the forefront of my processor, all I need to do... but no. That’s the coward’s way out. I haven’t needed to use a safeword in vorns. For all that he is, I trust him. I know I shouldn’t, I’ve seen into the depths of his spark, as he has seen mine. I shouldn’t trust him. But I do.
I narrow my optics as he slides around my frame, all sinuous grace, even with the heavier armour of his Decepticon alter ego adorning his chassis.
“You want me to release you.” I bite back my response, stopping the impulse to shake his hand away from my face as black fingers map out my vents. “Yes, you know this game we are playing.” His voice is a smooth rumble, slightly lower pitch than normal; all traces of his carefree Polyhex twang are gone, replaced with a harsh Kaon accent.
Yes, I know the game. I know it all too well. And the odds are stacked against me.
“I want information for your freedom, pretty one. I’m sure you remember what I can do if you refuse.” The smile on his faceplates is predatory, I recoil before I can catch myself, the chains rattling above my helm, but there is nowhere for me to go, no way to escape.
I refuse to look up at him, like a slave looking up at their master. Such a role reversal, for I am normally a head taller than him, but this is just part of the game; power, control, intimidation, dominance.
Yes, I remember.
He shifts, testing the bonds that keep him on his knees. He won’t get out. He knows that. But there is always that voice in the back of his processor that says this might be the time I’ve forgotten a lock, left something loose, that this might be the time he gets free.
I step closer, a claw raising his chin till he meets my optics, golden yellow to burning amber. He averts his gaze first. My engine hums in pleasure; it took a long time to teach him that submission is not necessarily a weakness.
I lean in, kneeling in front of him, one clawed hand resting lightly over his closed interface panel, a warning of what he stands to lose should he choose to defy me. “All I want is the codes for the Ark security room.”
He twists his helm out of my grasp before he glares at me, optics narrowing as he sneers, looking like the haughty noble who has not gotten his way that he was before he came to me.
I let my claws dig deeper, paint flaking, he winces as they bite into the metal, gouging furrows. “Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider?”
I almost laugh at the way his jaw clenches, hands curling round the chains as he stares at me, through me, warring with his own processor. “No.”
A sharp claw under my chin tilts my helm back, it is that or let it slice into vulnerable cabling in my neck. I meet his optics, the twin gems glowing like embers, burning me to my spark. His mouthplates quirk into a cold smile when I drag my gaze away.
Now is not the time to fight. In this game of wits and power I will need all my strength, both physical and mental. Better to submit where I can. When I can.
“All I want is the codes for the Ark security room.” Claws tap against my interface panel, a stark warning. But what he asks for is not something I can give.
I hiss as he flexes his hand, claws biting into the malleable metal. “Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider?”
Yes. No. I want...
What I want is not important. Only what I do. I will not betray my Prime. “No.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” His hands roam over my armour, tracing transformation seams, gently tugging at exposed wiring. Giving me time to dwell on what he can do, to realise just how vulnerable I am.
But I already know that. It is a well rehearsed play, but that knowledge doesn’t help me as claws trace the edge of my interface panel, apprehension building in my spark. I know exactly what he is capable of.
“Open up.” The sharp digits tap against the armour. “Or I’ll do it for you.”
“Good mech.” I croon as he releases the latches on his interface panel, and mechs used to say that it was impossible to get the Noble class to follow orders.
I slip a finger into his valve, laughing as his valve walls clench involuntarily, trying to remove the intrusion. He knows better than to try and move away though. I flex my finger, feeling the tip of my claw scrape along a dry wall. Yet he remains silent and still. Sometimes I think I’ve taught him too well, that it was better when I first started training him for what he could encounter in our line of work, when pain was an unknown and everything would draw out such beautiful sounds.
I add a second finger as soon as I feel lubricant starting to gather. No matter how much he might not want this some things are too deeply coded to change, some reactions too instinctive to resist.
My free hand traces across one sculpted cheek as I curl my fingers, letting my claws brush across sensor nodes, pain and pleasure all bound into one.
He hisses, the corners of his mouth twitching into a grimace, even as I trail my hand down his plating to his slowly pressurising spike, stroking slowly, gently, letting charge build in his systems without giving him release.
His composure is starting to crack; optics bright and systems humming with excess energy, he is fighting not to follow his frames urges, to rock into my hands.
“I only need the codes.”
I growl at his quiet murmur beside my audial unit, his hands never stopping their movement, the fingers in my valve stretching me, but barely moving, and his hand on my spike, loose, gentle, just enough to send a flicker of pleasure through my systems, to make my frame crave more, to need more.
I let my helm tip backwards, staring at the ceiling; he already knows that I will not give in so easily. Even for him it is hard nowadays to make me fail whatever test he has devised.
I yelp as he nips at the cables in my neck, the short sharp burst of pain bringing my optics back down to glare at him. He just grins back, drawing his claws along the inside of my valve, managing to draw a quiet whimper from me before I cut it off.
“You’re so pretty like this, so thoroughly debauched; I didn’t think Nobles would ever dare to debase themselves so in front of a common mech.” His hand traces up my body, marking a pathway in my own lubricants, a faint hint of energon mixed in.
I don’t answer as he runs his fingers around my lips. “You want me to let you overload don’t you?”
His optics suddenly light up, glowing in anticipation as he tilts his helm at me. “I’ve just had an idea, pretty one. I’m not sure you’ll like it, but I will, and that’s what matters.”
I laugh lightly as his optics flicker at my words, his armour trembling slightly, and not just from arousal. I can almost taste the trepidation, as I move around behind him, rooting through my box of toys.
I’ve always wanted to try this, to see how long he lasts before he begs for mercy.
“Easy pretty one, relax.” His armour flares in agitation as he is forced to wait to see what I have planned, his helm twisting to try and keep me in his view as I make my way back across the room.
Wrapping my arms around his chassis I nuzzle his neck, one hand gently stroking his spike, slowly but surely heightening the charge running around his frame.
I laugh as he twitches, gears in his hips whining in protest as he stills his movement, refusing to give in to the pleasure, refusing to lose his focus.
I smirk, he’ll lose his composure soon enough, I have plenty of time.
He yelps, hips jerking away as I wrap my free hand around the base of his spike, the cold metal of the inhibitor I had been holding startling him as it expands with a whirr of gears to encircle his spike, tightening into a solid ring.
I can’t help but make a sound of surprise as cool metal settles around my spike, tightening almost to the point of being painful; while his other hand on my spike doesn’t relent as he drapes himself around me. “Codes?”
“Go frag yourself.” I snarl.
He doesn’t miss a beat as he replies, “Why would I do that when I can frag you?” The click of his retracting panel is loud in the small room, his spike pressurising as soon as he frees it, the hard length pressing into my back.
He leans over my shoulder, one hand tilting my helm backwards, forcing me to meet his gaze, before he presses a quick kiss to my lips, moving away before I can think to try and bite him. Just managing to catch him and draw energon is often worth all the pain it brings.
He laughs as he dances away, one finger waggling playfully at me before he crouches down, hands roaming before he deftly unlocks the chains keeping me on my knees. Grabbing a handful of chain above me I haul myself to my feet, lashing out in a quick snap kick aimed at his helm as soon as I am standing.
He is quicker than I anticipated, managing to stand again so that my foot slams into his chest instead where he promptly catches it and then tugs.
I vaguely realise he has grabbed my other leg as my processor filters out the pain from my arms, all my weight being redistributed onto them. I don’t get a chance to recover before he steps closer, hips pressing against mine.
I wince as claws find gaps in my plating, digging in to the sensitive wiring beneath before he pushes himself into my valve, stretching the walls which have begun to relax without anything inside. Each thrust drawing a hiss from me as the angle allows him to stimulate sensors he scratched earlier, each snap of his hips creating a burning friction beneath the pleasure.
Reaching around him I unhook the chains that run from his ankles and over his thighs, keeping him kneeling before me. I expect the foot that kicks out towards me as he hauls himself to his feet using the chains from the ceiling.
He snarls as I grab his ankle, a quick tug sweeping him off his feet, a cry of pain escaping him as his weight abruptly ends up on his arms as the chains pull taut. A good thing the hooks I used in the ceiling can take the weight of a shuttle, one lithe little noble isn’t going to cause any trouble for them.
Tightening my arms around his thighs, claws digging into seams between his armour to anchor my hold I line myself up, pushing into the warmth of his valve. Static crackling where our chassis meet as the charge I have been building in him discharges to me, arching between us, tingling over sensors.
Starting to thrust into the tight heat he can do nothing but wrap his hands around the chains and lock his legs around my waist, each movement drawing a hiss from his vocaliser, his cries mingling with the clang of our hips and rattle of chains.
“You’re so tight; I can feel every sensor node.” I purr as my overload starts to roll through me, warnings scrolling in front of my optics about the accumulating charge.
It takes me all my will power to pause, spike buried deep in his valve, letting him writhe as he whimpers. “Are you forgetting something?” I ask, my hips twitching at the effort it takes to hold myself back.
He’s close; I can feel it, his engine rumbling as his frame shudders, the vibrations passing into my chassis as I shake my helm.
“Oh I think you are forgetting something.” He prompts again, his words lacing into static for a moment as I roll my hips as best I can in the position he is holding me in.
“Not that I’d tell you.”
“And here I thought you wanted to overload, thought you wanted to discharge all that lovely static that’s building up.” He croons.
Bucking my hips into his I decide to humour him “Yes.”
“So you do want to overload. If I let you will you give me my codes?” he says as he starts moving again, slow, shallow thrusts that make me try and move to meet each one.
“Not likely.” I say in between involuntary whimpers that are escaping my vocaliser.
“We’ll see.” He says with a malicious grin as he settles back into his previous rhythm, strokes deep and fast, ramping up the charge. “We’ll see.”
I overload with a groan, the discharge sending my pretty little noble into a strut aching overload as he goes limp for a moment. Letting go of his legs I use the moment of disorientation as his systems recalibrate to secure his ankles again.
He looks even prettier like this, so thoroughly used. My transfluid mixing with his lubricant, dripping out of his valve, to stain his thighs and pool on the floor, and his spike, still hard as my toy stops him from releasing his own transfluid, keeping him in a state of arousal.
“So, want to give me my codes now?” I ask as his optics power back up, still clouded by need. I expect nothing of the sort as he glares at me, but that is all the better for my plan.
“No? Too bad.” I say as I retrieve something from my box of toys, his optics widening as I circle back around.
I think he’s finally getting an idea of what I plan to do with him.
He wouldn’t.
He would.
No, no, no, no. Slag it all.
I twist away as he approaches
He laughs at my attempts to avoid him, his knees pushing between mine, baring my valve.
I whimper as he pushes a replica spike to my entrance. I don’t want him to do this. Not really. What I want is to lie back on a soft berth, let my hands roam over black and white plating, look into a sapphire visor. Not this mockery of my commander. All harsh red and black contours and unflinching amber gaze.
His moment of hesitation passes, he was waiting for me to stop him if I needed to. But he taught me to never give in, he created this defiance built it up from nothing.
He starts to push it in, so slowly, stretching me till error codes start to pile up in front of my optics. The only sound, apart from my harsh ventilations, is the clicks and whirrs as the gears in my valve adjust. They are made to take any size, but there is always a limit, and this is pushing it.
“Shhhhh. Nearly done.” I lean into the hand that brushes over my cheek, anything to take my processor off the burning stretch.
“There we go. Not so bad is it?” He asks, a soft clink and pressure letting me know he has activated its magnets, adhering it to my armour, keeping it in place.
He jerks as I activate it, sending vibrations rippling through his valve, his fans kicking into a higher gear as he squirms, trying to dislodge it.
I save several image captures of my pretty noble to a file he doesn’t even know I have. They make good reminders for when I have to send him out, give me something to process that doesn’t have to include cute and cuddly and all the sap that most of the Autobots demand if I take them to the berth.
Wandering over to my desk I collapse onto my chair, legs thrown over the side as I activate my terminal, I have work that needs to be done. Tilting the viewscreen, just enough that he can see that I am working on reports for Prowl and Prime, I start to type.
Most mechs, if asked what they would prefer, would probably choose this over some torture that utilises only pain. But I don’t that many of them realise that the worst torture is one that isn’t just physical, but mental, blending reality into confusion.
I manage to resist turning to watch as his vents hitch, electricity crackling around him as he overloads again.
I whine as the charge doesn’t fully dissipate, starting to build again almost immediately. How long will he let this go on for? Until my systems start shutting down to protect themselves? I wouldn’t put it past him.
At least I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is costing him to remain at his desk and working on whatever he is writing up.
Every movement I make causes a reaction in my frame, overwhelming my processor with jumbled signals. My arms hurt, my core temperature is above accepted operating parameters, my valve is stretched tight, gears at their widest setting, every moment jolting sensors and I need to overload.
Not the release of charge, pleasurable as it is, but a true release. And I need it before sensors become too hypersensitive, garbling signals, turning everything into pain.
Once that happens who knows what I’ll do. What I might say to stop it.
“Please?” The query is so quiet I almost miss it underneath the sounds of his arousal.
Finally, it took him long enough.
Sliding out of my chair I pad over to him, a smile curling up my faceplates as I take in the lubricant escaping his valve, smearing across his plating, spreading around him as he shudders, his vocalisations half pleasure, half pain.
“Please what?”
He turns his helm aside, optics cast down a long whine escaping him.
“Please what?” I ask again, running my fingers along a transformation seam. He arches into my touch, static sending a jolt through my system, pooling in my interface array.
“Come on, please what?”
He finally answers, his voice static laden. “Enough.”
I run a hand between his legs, my plating cool against the burning of his armour. “So tell me the codes to the security room.”
A static infused hiss is all I receive.
So, he isn’t as desperate as he makes himself out to be. But that would just be another trick in his arsenal, to make the torturer believe he is broken.
“Not going to talk then?”
I brush my fingers across his helm, trailing over his lips, before moving away. If he doesn’t want to talk I can oblige him. Making sure my comm. line is clear just in case it is needed, I grab something I had left out, I had a feeling I might need it.
“Since you don’t want to talk, you won’t mind this, will you?” I don’t give him a chance to answer as I force the gag into his mouth, muffling his whimpers.
Pulling the chair forward from the desk I sink down into the padded mesh, my optics roving over his chassis, drinking in the exquisite sight.
The trembling plating, his hands clenching the chains like a lifeline, the whirr of his fans trying to cool his overheated system, almost drowning out the hitching rumble of his engine.
And the way he arches backwards, helm thrown back, optics almost white as he screams into the gag, shaking as he overloads again.
I wonder how many he is up to now. I haven’t been keeping count. Perhaps I should have done, make it into a little record that I could try and have him beat some time in the future.
He’s watching me like I am the best entertainment he’s had for a while, a cube of energon at his elbow as he slowly works his spike, his other hand buried two fingers deep in his valve.
My pleasure, my agony, my helplessness turning him on as he enjoys the control, the absolute power he is holding.
I shake my helm. I’m loosing control.
Not of the situation, for I never held that. But of myself, of my processor; data lost, incorrectly filed, fragmented, and with it my ability to concentrate, to anticipate, to outwit my foe.
I keen, voice muffled, as he licks his fingers, trailing them suggestively over his thigh. Showing me what he can do.
What I can’t do.
I can feel the charge in my systems nearing breaking point again, my chassis twitching as it hits, a rush of heat, ripping through my circuits.
The warm rush of slowly kindled pleasure is long gone, now it is a towering inferno, blasting through me, leaving only embers that are swiftly set alight once more.
His optics are locked on my frame as he tumbles into another overload with a muffled scream, his frame jerking in its bonds. I overload, letting my body relax into the mesh, sated.
My mouth quirks up into a smirk as he stares back at me, gaze unfocussed. His ventilations short and sharp as he draws in enough air, but it isn’t helping, the very air in the room is warm, heated by his exertions.
I frown as his optics dull to grey. His systems are finally shutting down from the strain, delicate electronics being cut off to protect them from being blown out by the charge in his frame.
He must have shut his automated warning protocols down some time ago and now he’s starting to pay the price. Fail-safes he can’t override are finally kicking in to protect his more delicate components.
I wonder how much of his extra processing power has been shut down?
I think I’m screaming. At least I would be if I could.
Anything, anything at all to stop this, anything to bring about some relief.
Can’t focus, can’t think. Need to be calm. Need to relax.
Impossible. It is burning. Like a fire in my fuel lines, setting my sensors aflame.
I’m standing on the edge of a chasm.
Want to jump, let oblivion take me, but I’m held back.
Why?
Is this not enough? This Agony. Pleasure? Pain? Relentless, merciless, scorching me inside and out.
Please
Please stop, enough.
Please.
Not alone. Rescuer? Torturer? Who?
Whispers in the darkness, soothing, calming.
Help?
The voice... it wants... what?
Yes.
Anything.
My fingers trace around his face, releasing the gag, his static filled wail echoing around the room.
“Please, please, stop, enough. Please.” Begging, he’s reduced to begging as I lean in, his vents blowing heated air across my frame.
“Codes to the Ark security centre soldier.” My voice is soft, calming, something to rely upon, something to trust.
“Four-two-six-seven-seven-four-one-five.”
“Just that?” I wrap a hand around his spike, cooling the heated metal, a solid reprieve in his spinning world, a grounding touch amongst the pleasure and pain.
“Yessss.” He repeats the code like a mantra, like it is his last link to reality.
Perhaps in his mind it is.
But no matter, he is so delightfully delicious like this.
So utterly helpless.
I wrap a hand around his neck, ghosting over energon and coolant lines, how easy it would be to give him relief in this way. But then who would I play with?
And that’s not even counting how I’d explain his extinguishing to Prime.
Instead I let my hands roam, revelling in the responses; he’s so beyond comprehending that I’m even here, all he is doing is feeling, his frame responding like a puppet to my guiding hands.
I tilt my helm, if he was still coherent enough to answer me; I know he’d say he wants this.
My valve is already open, waiting, letting me sink onto his spike with a moan. Frag, but he feels good.
His chassis is alive with electricity, arching between our frames wherever we touch, sending pleasure shooting from my valve straight to my spark with every movement I make.
Slag, I should have tried this before. I can already feel my charge building to dangerous levels.
I laugh as I wrap my hand around the inhibitor; sending the codes for it to unclasp, letting him, finally, finally attain the release he needs. I groan as my valve is filled by his transfluid, his vocaliser cutting out with a static screech as he overloads again, his frame sagging, strut-less in his bonds.
I ease myself of his spike and shut the vibrator down before it can do any damage, ramping up his charge again when he’s offline with no way to deal with it except by blowing fuses isn’t on my list of things to explain to Ratchet.
Unhooking the chains I heave him up into my arms, glad again for the light alloys that make up his armour as I settle him into my berth.
I online with a groan, every joint aching, the sensors under my armour still hypersensitive, making the arm thrown across my abdominal plating appear to weigh far more than normal.
Peering down at the third limb I have gained I am glad to see that the red is gone, replaced by the smooth white worn by his Autobot persona. Although at times I’m still not sure who is the real Jazz.
“M’raj?” It isn’t often I get to see him like this, relaxed, trusting. His normal operating protocols would have him going from recharging to holding a knife at my throat before the rest of his systems fully boot up. One warm sapphire optic brightens as I twist my helm to regard him, “You did good ‘Raj, now get some more recharge.”
I did? I can’t remember; my processor has only corrupted memory files for the last part. “I did?” I wince as I speak, my vocaliser needing more time to heal than it has been given.
“Mmmmm, gave me codes that were in use two years ago.”
I settle back into his arms, far more secure in the knowledge that had that been real then my allies, my Prime, would still be safe.