Fic: Toss and Turn, Jazz/Motormaster, Weekly Response Fic
Title/Prompt: Toss and Turn
Writer: Left_eye_better
Rating: T
Characters: Motormaster, Jazz
Summary: On postwar Cybertron Jazz has an opportunity to deal with Motormaster, in his own way.
Prompt: Jazz/Motormaster- "I've dealt with your type before.”
Warning: None, minor cybertronian curses, mech kissing
Beta’d by: Not Beta’d D: Sorry, I'll read it and do edits but I wanted to get it posted for this week.
Disclaimer: Transformers © Hasbro/Takara.
_________________
Jazz walked a circuit in front of the captive Decepticon. He casually tossed a stun-baton in a spin and let it drop neatly back into his hand. Optimus wasn’t pleased, but it seemed to be getting to be a rarity for their leader to be. Optimus had returned from death a different mech. Thinking to himself he shrugged his shoulders. That wasn’t the matter now. What were left of the Decepticon forces were basically small raiding parties. They were defeated. They were damaged, and their leader Galvatron’s descent into madness seemed to have speed up.
The Stunticons had been sent to the revitalized Cybertron with no apparent mission besides destruction. Menasor’s attack on Iacon had ended nearly as soon as it began. The city defenses rising and with a few well-placed shots bringing the gestalt crumbling. Its components were hunted, and captured. The severely injured were receiving repairs but in the case of Motormaster. Jazz looked back at the prisoner. The truckformer was secured to the wall and glaring at him.
The Porsche’s expression changed to a smirk. This was the one that had to be changed. There was no point to fight anymore, especially under a leader that grew even more feeble in the processor each cycle. His steps brought him back to in front of the gestalt leader. He placed the business end of the stun-baton under the younger mech’s chin and applied pressure suggesting for Motormaster to tilt his helm up. “I’ve dealt with your type before. Yer strong, yer tough stuff, and I have ta admit you got your group hoppin’ but ya know what you don’t have?”
The dark gray mech didn’t answer, instead he chose to shake the baton out from under his chin and lunge at the smaller mech as far as his restraints would allow. Bringing the restraints taunt earned the Stunticon leader a nasty bit of voltage, causing his form to sag.
Jazz had known better than to stand close enough to be in range of the larger mech’s movements. Chuckling he took a step forward again and tapped the baton against Motormaster’s cheek. “You Don’t ‘ave a Future.” The black and white mech walked his circuit.
“I don’t want any of what you’re sellin’ Bot.” Purple optics burned richly from under the optical ridge of the truckformer’s helm that was tilted down. A snarl twisted the mech’s face. It was such a common expression for the mech that the young face had worn lines in it.
“I’m sure I have something to appease ya, if not I can always say we found an agreement and we do things the way we used ta in the Enforcers.” Jazz stepped into the Stunticon’s personal space, and place their faces close sharp cold blue visor met the purple optics on the same level. “I’d prefer not ta do it that way.” The Porsche danced back a couple steps. He had limited time to get some kind of positive commitment from the gestalt leader.
“I have to present the options. First Aid believes that the other members of your gestalt maybe converted after reading the personality profiles gathered on them since they are young.” He started his circuit again. Walking slow enough that each pass would match one of the options. “So, we can put you in storage and try to salvage your team which the educated guess on that is it won’t succeed since ya’ll are gestalt bonded.”
The stun-baton was tossed and caught again. His path brought him back in front of Motormaster he paused for a moment before continuing on his way. “Next is that we lock up your personality components indefinitely, sure ya heard from the Combaticons how chillin’ an option that is.”
Another circuit, another toss, another caught, another option, all smooth, and all cool. “I’m kinda rootin’ for this one, seems the kindest and most in the spirit of clear slates. We wipe the less than a vorn of data on all your hard drives and show the Autobot way from scratch.”
He was in front of the Stunticon again and heard the rumbling growl of the other’s engine. Jazz’s hand were behind his back both on the baton. He tilted his helm toward the Stunticon. “Or like I said we do this the Enforcer’s way, I take the weakest link aside, cross a couple of ‘is wires and let him fade in his next recharge cycle and take each of ya misguided sparks with him.”
Again he entered the other’s personal space, visor to optic. “Told ya, that’s not the way I’d like this ta go down.” He didn’t smoothly back away as he had before. “You could just join us, never have to fight for fuel, never grovel before a commander, make your own future, keep your gestalt on as short a leash as you want as long as we don’t see the abuse. We can compromise. Can you?”
Motormaster spat at the Porsche. The oral lubricant ended up hitting the Autobot’s chest plate. “Heh, well, I let ya hang around a while maybe if ya think on it you’ll see what I’m getting’ at.” He acted as though he wasn’t fazed by the action the younger mech had taken. Jazz smirked and jacked a small data drive into one of the Stunticon’s emergency neck dataports. A program downloaded and before Motormaster could react his chronometer disappeared. After removing the drive he put the distance back between them before turning gracefully on his heel and exiting the high security cell leaving the Stunticon to rust with his options for a while.
With his chronometer disabled and the consciousnesses of his gestaltmates always seemingly just out of reach due to the stasis they were likely being held in, Motormaster had little grasp of the passage of time. He had begun other ways of tracking it. The most reliable was the level of fuel in his systems. The Autobots would not let a prisoner starve and almost like clockwork, much to the gestalt leader's amusement, the black and white mech would return with a cube out fuel. Every time the sports car build will return the truckformer would strain the bonds, and cause an hard electrical shock to pass through his systems, bringing him to slump against the wall of the cell subdued against his liking.
Every time he had charged forward the lithe Porsche wouldn't speak to him but shake his helm sadly in a way that seemed to infuriate the Stunticon. Motormaster had no need or want of that look. He didn't understand what the expression was, but it was something that while in the Autobots' care he'd seen more than any other time in his existence.
Eventually he settled for a threatening growl, and curses no longer wishing to feel the sharp pain of the shock in exchange for an ineffective attack. This behavior led the his keeper deciding to speak at him. Motormaster preferred to think that he wasn't listening to the mech. That he didn't process the well thought out arguments, the persuasive glossae of thought. There was always a hint of threat woven into the mech's words. Always telling him the possibilities of his future, and of his gestalt's future.
The black and white mech was never violent with him. The Autobot barely touched him always dancing just beyond his range or movement. It was an exercise in patience for both them. No matter what he said to irritate his captor, no matter whom or what he threatened, Jazz, his keeper remained calm. The knowledge of just how futile the threats were gave the porsche that security.
Threats had eventually moved to demands. Motormaster demanded his gestalt be returned to him. He demanded they be allowed to wake from their induced stasis slumber. He demanded that they be let go. That one sad look had returned to the Autobot's face at his demands. It was not begging it was demanding. There was a difference although he held no power over the other, he still willed himself to believe there was a difference.
The gray truckformer's hatred simmered. He hated Galvatron for sending them on this oneway mission. He hated his gestalt for their weakness that had allowed for this. He hated the black and white grace-ridden mech that was his tie to the world outside his cell. He hated himslf for considering that mech's offer.
No more having to bow his helm, no more fighting over the meager amount of fuel that the Decepticon forces had, and no more groveling to an at least half mad ruler. He growled. Galvatron was not the mech that created him. He held no loyalty to that slagmaker than he had to Onslaught, or Starscream. The loyalty he did posses was to himself, and his authority over his gestaltmates. The future of his possessions was important, not in what's name he raised his sword.
Jazz had noticed the change. The yelling had stopped. The dangerous near feral growl tapered off and there were no more threats just brooding. He ducked his helm to inspect the truckformer's expression.
"What." It was less of a question and more of a challenge that the Stunticon leader issued. His purple optics locked on the blue of Jazz's optical band.
"You're thinkin' about it." The black and white mech's mouth stayed a straight line instead of it quirking into a smirk. "Thinkin' about your future?"
"I am. I'm also thinking about dismembering you. so I wouldn't get your hopes up." Motormaster's voice was a low snarl but the Porsche knew better than to expect anything else.
"All I can ask is that you think 'bout it." At that Jazz backed away again, and exited the cell. He didn't both to put the bars back in place for this motion. The black and white mech worked at a panel inset in the wall and the chains that held the large mech gained a small bit of length. "Now ya can think about it hopefully a little clearer without that pressure, right?"
Motormaster tested the extent of the length provided and with it adjusted the cuffs at his wrists. His optics narrowed as he watched the porsche. "I can wrap these chains around your neck with this much length."
"And I could report that you and thus your team are unsalvageable." Jazz leaned against the entrance to the cell where the energized bars would usually hum. His arms were crossed over his chestplate, and he looked rather bored at the threat.
"I could play along, then kill you in your recharge once I'm free." The gray truckformer grabbed the length of chain a yanked it. He'd learned a while ago that he had to extend them both fully to warrant a pacifying shock.
Jazz chuckled. "I secure mah door against bigger threats that go bump in the recharge cycle than you." His visor glinted in curiosity. He was surprised that the young mech was going to play now.
"Give me my gestalt, and I will show you why you should fear Menasor." The larger mech took a step forward his head down and shoulders squared. Though when Jazz took careful steps forward and got close to the Stunticon leader where their fronts were nearly touching.
The smaller mech grinned, “You don’t seem ta get it.” His visor was still locked with the now slightly confused looking optics of Motormaster. “We don’ need you to show me how ta fear ya, we need you to show the rest of the Cons how to.” Jazz lifted a hand a grabbed the larger mech’s chin, just hard enough for the younger mech to feel it. “Got it?
Motormaster growled and batted the hand away from his face. “Got it.” In one quick motion the gestalt core grabbed the Porsche’s collar plating, and crushed their mouths together.
When they parted Jazz’s smirk reinstated itself, "I've dealt with your type before. I like your type.”
Writer: Left_eye_better
Rating: T
Characters: Motormaster, Jazz
Summary: On postwar Cybertron Jazz has an opportunity to deal with Motormaster, in his own way.
Prompt: Jazz/Motormaster- "I've dealt with your type before.”
Warning: None, minor cybertronian curses, mech kissing
Beta’d by: Not Beta’d D: Sorry, I'll read it and do edits but I wanted to get it posted for this week.
Disclaimer: Transformers © Hasbro/Takara.
_________________
Jazz walked a circuit in front of the captive Decepticon. He casually tossed a stun-baton in a spin and let it drop neatly back into his hand. Optimus wasn’t pleased, but it seemed to be getting to be a rarity for their leader to be. Optimus had returned from death a different mech. Thinking to himself he shrugged his shoulders. That wasn’t the matter now. What were left of the Decepticon forces were basically small raiding parties. They were defeated. They were damaged, and their leader Galvatron’s descent into madness seemed to have speed up.
The Stunticons had been sent to the revitalized Cybertron with no apparent mission besides destruction. Menasor’s attack on Iacon had ended nearly as soon as it began. The city defenses rising and with a few well-placed shots bringing the gestalt crumbling. Its components were hunted, and captured. The severely injured were receiving repairs but in the case of Motormaster. Jazz looked back at the prisoner. The truckformer was secured to the wall and glaring at him.
The Porsche’s expression changed to a smirk. This was the one that had to be changed. There was no point to fight anymore, especially under a leader that grew even more feeble in the processor each cycle. His steps brought him back to in front of the gestalt leader. He placed the business end of the stun-baton under the younger mech’s chin and applied pressure suggesting for Motormaster to tilt his helm up. “I’ve dealt with your type before. Yer strong, yer tough stuff, and I have ta admit you got your group hoppin’ but ya know what you don’t have?”
The dark gray mech didn’t answer, instead he chose to shake the baton out from under his chin and lunge at the smaller mech as far as his restraints would allow. Bringing the restraints taunt earned the Stunticon leader a nasty bit of voltage, causing his form to sag.
Jazz had known better than to stand close enough to be in range of the larger mech’s movements. Chuckling he took a step forward again and tapped the baton against Motormaster’s cheek. “You Don’t ‘ave a Future.” The black and white mech walked his circuit.
“I don’t want any of what you’re sellin’ Bot.” Purple optics burned richly from under the optical ridge of the truckformer’s helm that was tilted down. A snarl twisted the mech’s face. It was such a common expression for the mech that the young face had worn lines in it.
“I’m sure I have something to appease ya, if not I can always say we found an agreement and we do things the way we used ta in the Enforcers.” Jazz stepped into the Stunticon’s personal space, and place their faces close sharp cold blue visor met the purple optics on the same level. “I’d prefer not ta do it that way.” The Porsche danced back a couple steps. He had limited time to get some kind of positive commitment from the gestalt leader.
“I have to present the options. First Aid believes that the other members of your gestalt maybe converted after reading the personality profiles gathered on them since they are young.” He started his circuit again. Walking slow enough that each pass would match one of the options. “So, we can put you in storage and try to salvage your team which the educated guess on that is it won’t succeed since ya’ll are gestalt bonded.”
The stun-baton was tossed and caught again. His path brought him back in front of Motormaster he paused for a moment before continuing on his way. “Next is that we lock up your personality components indefinitely, sure ya heard from the Combaticons how chillin’ an option that is.”
Another circuit, another toss, another caught, another option, all smooth, and all cool. “I’m kinda rootin’ for this one, seems the kindest and most in the spirit of clear slates. We wipe the less than a vorn of data on all your hard drives and show the Autobot way from scratch.”
He was in front of the Stunticon again and heard the rumbling growl of the other’s engine. Jazz’s hand were behind his back both on the baton. He tilted his helm toward the Stunticon. “Or like I said we do this the Enforcer’s way, I take the weakest link aside, cross a couple of ‘is wires and let him fade in his next recharge cycle and take each of ya misguided sparks with him.”
Again he entered the other’s personal space, visor to optic. “Told ya, that’s not the way I’d like this ta go down.” He didn’t smoothly back away as he had before. “You could just join us, never have to fight for fuel, never grovel before a commander, make your own future, keep your gestalt on as short a leash as you want as long as we don’t see the abuse. We can compromise. Can you?”
Motormaster spat at the Porsche. The oral lubricant ended up hitting the Autobot’s chest plate. “Heh, well, I let ya hang around a while maybe if ya think on it you’ll see what I’m getting’ at.” He acted as though he wasn’t fazed by the action the younger mech had taken. Jazz smirked and jacked a small data drive into one of the Stunticon’s emergency neck dataports. A program downloaded and before Motormaster could react his chronometer disappeared. After removing the drive he put the distance back between them before turning gracefully on his heel and exiting the high security cell leaving the Stunticon to rust with his options for a while.
With his chronometer disabled and the consciousnesses of his gestaltmates always seemingly just out of reach due to the stasis they were likely being held in, Motormaster had little grasp of the passage of time. He had begun other ways of tracking it. The most reliable was the level of fuel in his systems. The Autobots would not let a prisoner starve and almost like clockwork, much to the gestalt leader's amusement, the black and white mech would return with a cube out fuel. Every time the sports car build will return the truckformer would strain the bonds, and cause an hard electrical shock to pass through his systems, bringing him to slump against the wall of the cell subdued against his liking.
Every time he had charged forward the lithe Porsche wouldn't speak to him but shake his helm sadly in a way that seemed to infuriate the Stunticon. Motormaster had no need or want of that look. He didn't understand what the expression was, but it was something that while in the Autobots' care he'd seen more than any other time in his existence.
Eventually he settled for a threatening growl, and curses no longer wishing to feel the sharp pain of the shock in exchange for an ineffective attack. This behavior led the his keeper deciding to speak at him. Motormaster preferred to think that he wasn't listening to the mech. That he didn't process the well thought out arguments, the persuasive glossae of thought. There was always a hint of threat woven into the mech's words. Always telling him the possibilities of his future, and of his gestalt's future.
The black and white mech was never violent with him. The Autobot barely touched him always dancing just beyond his range or movement. It was an exercise in patience for both them. No matter what he said to irritate his captor, no matter whom or what he threatened, Jazz, his keeper remained calm. The knowledge of just how futile the threats were gave the porsche that security.
Threats had eventually moved to demands. Motormaster demanded his gestalt be returned to him. He demanded they be allowed to wake from their induced stasis slumber. He demanded that they be let go. That one sad look had returned to the Autobot's face at his demands. It was not begging it was demanding. There was a difference although he held no power over the other, he still willed himself to believe there was a difference.
The gray truckformer's hatred simmered. He hated Galvatron for sending them on this oneway mission. He hated his gestalt for their weakness that had allowed for this. He hated the black and white grace-ridden mech that was his tie to the world outside his cell. He hated himslf for considering that mech's offer.
No more having to bow his helm, no more fighting over the meager amount of fuel that the Decepticon forces had, and no more groveling to an at least half mad ruler. He growled. Galvatron was not the mech that created him. He held no loyalty to that slagmaker than he had to Onslaught, or Starscream. The loyalty he did posses was to himself, and his authority over his gestaltmates. The future of his possessions was important, not in what's name he raised his sword.
Jazz had noticed the change. The yelling had stopped. The dangerous near feral growl tapered off and there were no more threats just brooding. He ducked his helm to inspect the truckformer's expression.
"What." It was less of a question and more of a challenge that the Stunticon leader issued. His purple optics locked on the blue of Jazz's optical band.
"You're thinkin' about it." The black and white mech's mouth stayed a straight line instead of it quirking into a smirk. "Thinkin' about your future?"
"I am. I'm also thinking about dismembering you. so I wouldn't get your hopes up." Motormaster's voice was a low snarl but the Porsche knew better than to expect anything else.
"All I can ask is that you think 'bout it." At that Jazz backed away again, and exited the cell. He didn't both to put the bars back in place for this motion. The black and white mech worked at a panel inset in the wall and the chains that held the large mech gained a small bit of length. "Now ya can think about it hopefully a little clearer without that pressure, right?"
Motormaster tested the extent of the length provided and with it adjusted the cuffs at his wrists. His optics narrowed as he watched the porsche. "I can wrap these chains around your neck with this much length."
"And I could report that you and thus your team are unsalvageable." Jazz leaned against the entrance to the cell where the energized bars would usually hum. His arms were crossed over his chestplate, and he looked rather bored at the threat.
"I could play along, then kill you in your recharge once I'm free." The gray truckformer grabbed the length of chain a yanked it. He'd learned a while ago that he had to extend them both fully to warrant a pacifying shock.
Jazz chuckled. "I secure mah door against bigger threats that go bump in the recharge cycle than you." His visor glinted in curiosity. He was surprised that the young mech was going to play now.
"Give me my gestalt, and I will show you why you should fear Menasor." The larger mech took a step forward his head down and shoulders squared. Though when Jazz took careful steps forward and got close to the Stunticon leader where their fronts were nearly touching.
The smaller mech grinned, “You don’t seem ta get it.” His visor was still locked with the now slightly confused looking optics of Motormaster. “We don’ need you to show me how ta fear ya, we need you to show the rest of the Cons how to.” Jazz lifted a hand a grabbed the larger mech’s chin, just hard enough for the younger mech to feel it. “Got it?
Motormaster growled and batted the hand away from his face. “Got it.” In one quick motion the gestalt core grabbed the Porsche’s collar plating, and crushed their mouths together.
When they parted Jazz’s smirk reinstated itself, "I've dealt with your type before. I like your type.”