The Morning Report, Chapter Six
Title: The Morning Report
Author: Kyra Neko-Rei
Rating: R, for this one. NC-17 soon, I promise.
Warnings: Talk of BDSM.
Disclaimer: It isn't mine.
Summary: The holding cells are now THE place to see and be seen. Everybody important seems to be there.
They called Ratchet.
Granted, he was the medic on call, but even if he hadn't been Optimus would've called him. None of the other medics would appreciate the situation quite as much, and Ratchet wouldn't have forgiven Ironhide for orns if his primary mate had left him out of the loop on such a thing.
But they did call him, and so instead he laughed. Hard. Long. And finally got about the business of separating the couple and bringing them out of stasis lock.
Optimus, with an uncharacteristic vengeful gleam in his optics as he contemplated his offline (and thus non-document-signing) brother, told Ratchet to hold off on awakening Megatron. A few more breems (or joors, really) wouldn't make that much difference at this point. He and Megatron both would have processor-aches aplenty when the latter deigned to join the world of the functional and productive again, and given that both sets were now substantially Megatron's fault, Optimus would confess to having some degree of interest in making the Lord Protector's share of them that much bigger.
They could carry him down to the holding cells, and if everyone in the building saw him being hauled about like so much cargo, all the better.
--------------------------------
Bubbles moved behind Jazz. Lost in his gigglefit, he did not notice until a hand clapped down on his shoulder. Startled, he looked up into the face of a mech he didn't recognize; red eyes looked down at him curiously from behind visor and facemask, and an oddly modulated voice asked him, "Inquiry: what is funny?"
Jazz grinned and pointed to the computer screen. He didn't seem to need to explain, as the mech leaned down to observe more closely. Then, "Inquiry: designation."
"Jazz," Jazz said. "Who're you?"
"Soundwave," came the monotone reply. "Security. You are under arrest for invasive computer practices."
Jazz stared stupidly for half a beat and then facepalmed.
Oh, Primus, I am such an idiot.
--------------------------------
Megatron came online feeling satisfied in that fashion which only comes with impressive overloads, his body relaxed and circuits still humming with the aftereffects of pleasure. He stretched, moving his arms above his head until his hands encountered a wall, and arching his back until his torso and hips lifted off the ground.
His spark felt . . . sore.
He hadn't had that many overloads, had he?
No, and he hadn't even delayed overload long enough to cause such an ache. That took breems, at least.
A momentary image of Starscream writhing on the floor superimposed itself on his processors, and Megatron smiled, and then realized that he couldn't feel the Seeker lying against him.
Optics activated, questing around him for his new Air Commander, and presented instead the fact that he was not in his office.
He was, in fact, in the brig.
In a cell in the brig.
WHAT?!!!
"Oh, good, you're awake." His brother, looking very gleeful in a way that made Megatron very suspicious, was lounging in a chair across from his cell. Megatron was not happy to see him, and growled. "Why am I here? Where is Starscream?"
"Your new . . . Air Commander," the Prime's tone made the title into a double-entendre, and Megatron silently swore that Optimus would never so much as flirt without Megatron teasing him unmercifully over it, "is in the medical bay, recovering from energy depletion, stasis lock and sensor fatigue." Megatron's own spark flared at the memory and just as quickly lit up in pain, the sort that attended overstressed motor relays after endurance training, so he demanded, "Why am I not there also?"
Optimus smiled. Not nicely. "You're a big mech, you'll live." Megatron fumed. Primus, his brother was turning into him. A frightning concept . . . and a mildly arousing one, and pit dammit, that was the wrong line of thought to follow right now. He bit back a groan of pain, turned it into a growl; his brother's disturbingly-sexy smile widened smugly. Remove the energy field in the doorway and eliminate the ache from his spark, and he'd be torn between punishing that smile away until it was replaced with delicious pleas, or rewarding it until they were both too drained to walk the next day. His spark flared again. Slagfragger.
"And? Why am I here?" he asked, distracting them both before his processor could latch onto either scenario.
"You are here," said a new voice, "because you are charged with violating Section Four, Clause Eleven of Article Six, Security Protocols, in the Cybertron Standard Penal Code." Elita-One, Iacon's chief of security, moved smoothly into his line of vision, smiling like Optimus, and Megatron's spark flared again. Primus dammit, he usually didn't consider her in that fashion, but that look, that exquisitely vicious look of a predator towards prey, just enough righteous anger showing underneath, and---damn!
"Huh?" he said. He didn't think he'd ever read that part.
"You locked out the override codes for your office," Optimus said helpfully. "That's illegal."
Oh.
"This being a Class Two security violation, you are to be charged and sentenced by the Courts."
What?!
Optimus and Elita were wearing matching vicious grins which widened in unison as his reaction undoubtedly showed in his expression. The doings of the Courts were a matter of public record, and given the often . . . creative logical maneuverings and posturings of plaintiff, defendant, legal counsels, and sometimes even the judges themselves, tended to be highly entertaining---and thus watched by a great many Cybertronians. If he were to be charged in the Courts, he'd effectively be the butt of a massive joke, all the more so for his high office.
"Of course," Elita's voice was all sweetness, "You could always enter a guilty plea in private and consent to alternative chastisement."
Alternative chastisement. Physical punishment determined by the plaintiff and the officer with jurisdiction---usually flogging or beating with a rod, but some officers (and some plaintiffs) had a fondness for adding things like humiliation and overload denial---or just plain interfacing. Looking down at his brother and the Security officer, at the wicked smiles gracing their faceplates, he could tell without asking what sort of things they had in mind. But it was private, limited in duration, and . . . there was some part of him, deep in his processor, that was so turned on by the prospect that he found himself nodding agreement.
"Very well."
----------------------------------
Barricade watched it all from his own cell across the room. He had to turn his audials up all the way to hear it, and the purring of his brother's systems drowned some of it out, but he caught the gist of what was being said. He had the fingers of one hand latched deep into his vents, preventing them from spinning and thus keeping his own engines quiet, but the image of the Lord High Protector locked in a cell was spectacularly arousing, and once the Security 'bot mentioned alternative chastisement he had to let go to avoid overheating. When Megatron nodded his assent to the suggestion, Barricade lost it completely and sat down against the wall, both hands gripping and prodding at his spark until he shook with the force of his overload.
----------------------------------
The walk across the courtyard was amusing; the ride down in the turbolift, less so. Granted, there were still bubbles floating around, and Jazz chuckled lightly at that, but there was also the troubling realization that he had never been in this much trouble before.
He was sure it would turn out to be nothing---he'd checked the legal code for his technicality just that morning. At most, they'd schedule him for a round of physical punishment.
He wondered if they'd bring in a telepath to verify that he'd only had amusement in mind. They were very rare, and their identities not common knowledge, but he could request the services of one if they started accusing him of planning something violent.
But something was . . . troubling him. He couldn't really lay a finger on it; it was only a feeling, but Jazz always trusted his instincts. They were what had kept him alive all his life, sometimes only half a step ahead of violent deactivation. And when he felt like this . . .
Something was going to happen. Something would alter the course of his life.
He was not a particularly religious mech, but he believed, and when these sorts of premonitions happened he believed with every last joule of energy in his spark. He was a little bit afraid; such things, when they happened, sometimes felt impossible to deal with---he remembered Kaon, and shuddered---but each event had played a vital part in making him the mech he was, and he had no regrets. Even Kaon. This, too---even if he could have run away, he wouldn't. He was not that kind of mech. Whatever it was, he would take it as it came.
He shifted from one pede to the other, restless. The lift was slow, dropping them down, down, down to the security bunker below the maintenance and engineering rooms under the building. Beside him, his arresting officer stood ramrod-straight and still, watching him, unscrutable behind the visor and mask. Soundwave. It was a musical name, a sound name, and Jazz had found himself warming to the mech in the instant he'd introduced himself, before he'd revealed his profession and intent. A single rich dark blue in color, with polished bare-metal highlights and the red visor in beautiful contrast, he was a deeply pleasing sight. The posture with which he held himself was one of effortless discipline and perfection, and there was something about it that Jazz was drawn to. Something he, all freestyle and uninhibited, lacked---and a tiny hint of something he wanted.
He wondered if this mech would be the one to discipline him, and found himself smiling at the thought.
The door opened, Soundwave's hand and forearm pressing lightly against his bound arms, and he stepped out into the room.
-----------------------------
Prowl sat on the bench in the next cell over from Barricade, watching the Prime and contemplating his own fate. The idea of going through the courts was enough to send him into a panic when he thought about it, so he was very carefully not thinking about it. The other option was corporal punishment---to be beaten with a rod or have a shockstick applied to sensitive areas until the officer in charge decided that sufficient punishment had been given. Prowl had always thought the practice barbaric---any good government should be able to maintain discipline without resorting to violent means---and had been surprised at the percentage of accused who chose it, but now that he was in that very situation, he knew that he was going to make the same choice. Granted, doubtless not every mech who did so had his reasons for it, his shyness and desire for privacy to keep it from becoming common knowledge, but he had a fair idea of what was ahead of him, and it was tolerable.
He could hear his brother's engines roar to life next to him, and another image came to his processors, unbidden: the door to his quarters opening to reveal Barricade, bent over Prowl's desk and held in place by that big dark gray mech he'd brought home the one time, engines roaring and vocalizer mewling with pleasure as the bigger mech repeatedly slapped his aft and thighs. At the time, Prowl had called security to get them off his desk and forbidden Prowl to bring lovers to their shared quarters; now, he could remember the resounding clangs of metal on metal, the arch in Barricade's back and the lustful cries telling everyone within hearing range that he loved the rough treatment; Prowl shivered, imagining himself in a similar position.
He'd never devoted that much thought to anything above and beyond standard spark-sharing, had had few lovers besides Barricade, did not consider himself kinky by any stretch of the imagination.
But there was something about it . . .
He was interrupted by the hiss of the door and the entrance of two mechs. One he recognized as Soundwave, Head of Security of the Government Center; the other was his own size, a brilliant silver form infused with liquid grace despite being bound in handcuffs. The Security Head's expressionless glare had no effect on him; his faceplates were graced with a beaming grin as though he were the happiest of mechs; his optics were hidden by a silver visor, but somehow Prowl knew they were sparkling with humor and joy to match his expression. Soundwave calmly marched him past Prowl's cell---no. Soundwave marched. This mech danced. As they passed Prowl, the silver mech hopped slightly ahead of Soundwave, and half-turned; his gaze happened upon Prowl, and he stopped.
And smiled a different smile, one that said he'd found something intriguing, beautiful, worth every last bit of his attention---at Prowl. "Hel-lo!"
Something in Prowl's spark flared, and he was smiling in return before he consciously thought to do so.
Author: Kyra Neko-Rei
Rating: R, for this one. NC-17 soon, I promise.
Warnings: Talk of BDSM.
Disclaimer: It isn't mine.
Summary: The holding cells are now THE place to see and be seen. Everybody important seems to be there.
They called Ratchet.
Granted, he was the medic on call, but even if he hadn't been Optimus would've called him. None of the other medics would appreciate the situation quite as much, and Ratchet wouldn't have forgiven Ironhide for orns if his primary mate had left him out of the loop on such a thing.
But they did call him, and so instead he laughed. Hard. Long. And finally got about the business of separating the couple and bringing them out of stasis lock.
Optimus, with an uncharacteristic vengeful gleam in his optics as he contemplated his offline (and thus non-document-signing) brother, told Ratchet to hold off on awakening Megatron. A few more breems (or joors, really) wouldn't make that much difference at this point. He and Megatron both would have processor-aches aplenty when the latter deigned to join the world of the functional and productive again, and given that both sets were now substantially Megatron's fault, Optimus would confess to having some degree of interest in making the Lord Protector's share of them that much bigger.
They could carry him down to the holding cells, and if everyone in the building saw him being hauled about like so much cargo, all the better.
--------------------------------
Bubbles moved behind Jazz. Lost in his gigglefit, he did not notice until a hand clapped down on his shoulder. Startled, he looked up into the face of a mech he didn't recognize; red eyes looked down at him curiously from behind visor and facemask, and an oddly modulated voice asked him, "Inquiry: what is funny?"
Jazz grinned and pointed to the computer screen. He didn't seem to need to explain, as the mech leaned down to observe more closely. Then, "Inquiry: designation."
"Jazz," Jazz said. "Who're you?"
"Soundwave," came the monotone reply. "Security. You are under arrest for invasive computer practices."
Jazz stared stupidly for half a beat and then facepalmed.
Oh, Primus, I am such an idiot.
--------------------------------
Megatron came online feeling satisfied in that fashion which only comes with impressive overloads, his body relaxed and circuits still humming with the aftereffects of pleasure. He stretched, moving his arms above his head until his hands encountered a wall, and arching his back until his torso and hips lifted off the ground.
His spark felt . . . sore.
He hadn't had that many overloads, had he?
No, and he hadn't even delayed overload long enough to cause such an ache. That took breems, at least.
A momentary image of Starscream writhing on the floor superimposed itself on his processors, and Megatron smiled, and then realized that he couldn't feel the Seeker lying against him.
Optics activated, questing around him for his new Air Commander, and presented instead the fact that he was not in his office.
He was, in fact, in the brig.
In a cell in the brig.
WHAT?!!!
"Oh, good, you're awake." His brother, looking very gleeful in a way that made Megatron very suspicious, was lounging in a chair across from his cell. Megatron was not happy to see him, and growled. "Why am I here? Where is Starscream?"
"Your new . . . Air Commander," the Prime's tone made the title into a double-entendre, and Megatron silently swore that Optimus would never so much as flirt without Megatron teasing him unmercifully over it, "is in the medical bay, recovering from energy depletion, stasis lock and sensor fatigue." Megatron's own spark flared at the memory and just as quickly lit up in pain, the sort that attended overstressed motor relays after endurance training, so he demanded, "Why am I not there also?"
Optimus smiled. Not nicely. "You're a big mech, you'll live." Megatron fumed. Primus, his brother was turning into him. A frightning concept . . . and a mildly arousing one, and pit dammit, that was the wrong line of thought to follow right now. He bit back a groan of pain, turned it into a growl; his brother's disturbingly-sexy smile widened smugly. Remove the energy field in the doorway and eliminate the ache from his spark, and he'd be torn between punishing that smile away until it was replaced with delicious pleas, or rewarding it until they were both too drained to walk the next day. His spark flared again. Slagfragger.
"And? Why am I here?" he asked, distracting them both before his processor could latch onto either scenario.
"You are here," said a new voice, "because you are charged with violating Section Four, Clause Eleven of Article Six, Security Protocols, in the Cybertron Standard Penal Code." Elita-One, Iacon's chief of security, moved smoothly into his line of vision, smiling like Optimus, and Megatron's spark flared again. Primus dammit, he usually didn't consider her in that fashion, but that look, that exquisitely vicious look of a predator towards prey, just enough righteous anger showing underneath, and---damn!
"Huh?" he said. He didn't think he'd ever read that part.
"You locked out the override codes for your office," Optimus said helpfully. "That's illegal."
Oh.
"This being a Class Two security violation, you are to be charged and sentenced by the Courts."
What?!
Optimus and Elita were wearing matching vicious grins which widened in unison as his reaction undoubtedly showed in his expression. The doings of the Courts were a matter of public record, and given the often . . . creative logical maneuverings and posturings of plaintiff, defendant, legal counsels, and sometimes even the judges themselves, tended to be highly entertaining---and thus watched by a great many Cybertronians. If he were to be charged in the Courts, he'd effectively be the butt of a massive joke, all the more so for his high office.
"Of course," Elita's voice was all sweetness, "You could always enter a guilty plea in private and consent to alternative chastisement."
Alternative chastisement. Physical punishment determined by the plaintiff and the officer with jurisdiction---usually flogging or beating with a rod, but some officers (and some plaintiffs) had a fondness for adding things like humiliation and overload denial---or just plain interfacing. Looking down at his brother and the Security officer, at the wicked smiles gracing their faceplates, he could tell without asking what sort of things they had in mind. But it was private, limited in duration, and . . . there was some part of him, deep in his processor, that was so turned on by the prospect that he found himself nodding agreement.
"Very well."
----------------------------------
Barricade watched it all from his own cell across the room. He had to turn his audials up all the way to hear it, and the purring of his brother's systems drowned some of it out, but he caught the gist of what was being said. He had the fingers of one hand latched deep into his vents, preventing them from spinning and thus keeping his own engines quiet, but the image of the Lord High Protector locked in a cell was spectacularly arousing, and once the Security 'bot mentioned alternative chastisement he had to let go to avoid overheating. When Megatron nodded his assent to the suggestion, Barricade lost it completely and sat down against the wall, both hands gripping and prodding at his spark until he shook with the force of his overload.
----------------------------------
The walk across the courtyard was amusing; the ride down in the turbolift, less so. Granted, there were still bubbles floating around, and Jazz chuckled lightly at that, but there was also the troubling realization that he had never been in this much trouble before.
He was sure it would turn out to be nothing---he'd checked the legal code for his technicality just that morning. At most, they'd schedule him for a round of physical punishment.
He wondered if they'd bring in a telepath to verify that he'd only had amusement in mind. They were very rare, and their identities not common knowledge, but he could request the services of one if they started accusing him of planning something violent.
But something was . . . troubling him. He couldn't really lay a finger on it; it was only a feeling, but Jazz always trusted his instincts. They were what had kept him alive all his life, sometimes only half a step ahead of violent deactivation. And when he felt like this . . .
Something was going to happen. Something would alter the course of his life.
He was not a particularly religious mech, but he believed, and when these sorts of premonitions happened he believed with every last joule of energy in his spark. He was a little bit afraid; such things, when they happened, sometimes felt impossible to deal with---he remembered Kaon, and shuddered---but each event had played a vital part in making him the mech he was, and he had no regrets. Even Kaon. This, too---even if he could have run away, he wouldn't. He was not that kind of mech. Whatever it was, he would take it as it came.
He shifted from one pede to the other, restless. The lift was slow, dropping them down, down, down to the security bunker below the maintenance and engineering rooms under the building. Beside him, his arresting officer stood ramrod-straight and still, watching him, unscrutable behind the visor and mask. Soundwave. It was a musical name, a sound name, and Jazz had found himself warming to the mech in the instant he'd introduced himself, before he'd revealed his profession and intent. A single rich dark blue in color, with polished bare-metal highlights and the red visor in beautiful contrast, he was a deeply pleasing sight. The posture with which he held himself was one of effortless discipline and perfection, and there was something about it that Jazz was drawn to. Something he, all freestyle and uninhibited, lacked---and a tiny hint of something he wanted.
He wondered if this mech would be the one to discipline him, and found himself smiling at the thought.
The door opened, Soundwave's hand and forearm pressing lightly against his bound arms, and he stepped out into the room.
-----------------------------
Prowl sat on the bench in the next cell over from Barricade, watching the Prime and contemplating his own fate. The idea of going through the courts was enough to send him into a panic when he thought about it, so he was very carefully not thinking about it. The other option was corporal punishment---to be beaten with a rod or have a shockstick applied to sensitive areas until the officer in charge decided that sufficient punishment had been given. Prowl had always thought the practice barbaric---any good government should be able to maintain discipline without resorting to violent means---and had been surprised at the percentage of accused who chose it, but now that he was in that very situation, he knew that he was going to make the same choice. Granted, doubtless not every mech who did so had his reasons for it, his shyness and desire for privacy to keep it from becoming common knowledge, but he had a fair idea of what was ahead of him, and it was tolerable.
He could hear his brother's engines roar to life next to him, and another image came to his processors, unbidden: the door to his quarters opening to reveal Barricade, bent over Prowl's desk and held in place by that big dark gray mech he'd brought home the one time, engines roaring and vocalizer mewling with pleasure as the bigger mech repeatedly slapped his aft and thighs. At the time, Prowl had called security to get them off his desk and forbidden Prowl to bring lovers to their shared quarters; now, he could remember the resounding clangs of metal on metal, the arch in Barricade's back and the lustful cries telling everyone within hearing range that he loved the rough treatment; Prowl shivered, imagining himself in a similar position.
He'd never devoted that much thought to anything above and beyond standard spark-sharing, had had few lovers besides Barricade, did not consider himself kinky by any stretch of the imagination.
But there was something about it . . .
He was interrupted by the hiss of the door and the entrance of two mechs. One he recognized as Soundwave, Head of Security of the Government Center; the other was his own size, a brilliant silver form infused with liquid grace despite being bound in handcuffs. The Security Head's expressionless glare had no effect on him; his faceplates were graced with a beaming grin as though he were the happiest of mechs; his optics were hidden by a silver visor, but somehow Prowl knew they were sparkling with humor and joy to match his expression. Soundwave calmly marched him past Prowl's cell---no. Soundwave marched. This mech danced. As they passed Prowl, the silver mech hopped slightly ahead of Soundwave, and half-turned; his gaze happened upon Prowl, and he stopped.
And smiled a different smile, one that said he'd found something intriguing, beautiful, worth every last bit of his attention---at Prowl. "Hel-lo!"
Something in Prowl's spark flared, and he was smiling in return before he consciously thought to do so.