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Reward	By : Hambone Category: Transformers > Beast Machines Views: 1465 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers or any affiliated media and make no profit off this writing.

Chapter List
- 1-Reward
- 1
“One deep-fried bat-boy, fresh off the Barbie!”
Jetstorm had done well this time. Very well. The other two Vehicon Generals stood a safe distance away, afraid of how their failure to capture their quota of Maximals would look in comparison. It was one thing when they all came back empty-handed, but a single success over the others was a different beast entirely.
The winner himself was bobbing about the room above their heads, continuing to boast his talents even when Megatron had dragged the stasis-locked body of Nightscream over to his command center and begun examining it, steadfast in his decided state of ignoring them all. Jetstorm finally finished his enthralling retelling of the events leading up to the unfortunate Maximal’s capture, turning expectantly to Megatron’s silent back.
The room fell into a pregnant pause, penetrated only by the consistent clicking of Megatron’s exo-suit. The Generals hovered nervously, some more figuratively than others, awaiting new commands. Nothing. In perfect form with his impatient nature, Jetstorm tented his claws and hummed questioningly.
“So, Magnificence?” Jetstorm cocked his tail to the side, swiveling his hips in an overly exaggerated, saucy manner.
Megatron turned back for the briefest moment, lips set in a tight grimace behind their grill.
“What?”
Undeterred, Jetstorm pressed on.
“I believe there was some mention of a reward, before?”
Ah, the truth revealed.
Megatron sighed, refusing to dignify that with a response. He turned back to his console, silent. Annoyingly, Jetstorm was not one to be ignored.
“The suspense is killing me!” the words were spoken with obvious emphasis, Jetstorm daring to float closer as he waited. Fine, fine. If he wanted to play this agitating game of persistence, Megatron would play back.
Waving one hand behind him loosely, he spoke without looking.
“So it shall be.”
A mass of cables twisted down from the ceiling above, faster than could have been accounted for, and wrapped tightly around Jetstorm’s thick wrists, binding them behind his waist. Shocked and appalled by his apparent betrayal, Jetstorm wordlessly yelled in anger, an almost animalistic growl. Thrust and Tankor both rolled back several feet, lest they fall prey to the same fate. They weren’t particularly sure what Megatron had in mind for them, after all, and they weren’t too keen on reminding him of their presence.
More of the cords, thinner ones, spiraled down around Jetstorm as he struggled and tugged. His vents roared with effort, uselessly trying to propel him away from them. The cables slid with a lazy, directionless lethargy, almost giving them the illusion of being living beings. Megatron did not acknowledge what was happening at all, focused on his work.
“This is your idea of a reward?!” Jetstorm was so furious he had forgotten his etiquette in dealing with their master. It mattered not; he remained ignored by all but the cables. His outrage continued to manifest in various shouted insults, which increased in bass and volume until one of the cords slithered around his neck and squeezed.
That shut him up.
His helm flew back with a cut off choking noise, vocalizer shorting, all Jetstorm’s struggles ceasing as his joints noticeably locked. The cables moved, tighter still, finding the hairline transformation seams in his chassis and working against them. Thrust and Tankor were frozen below, both curious and horrified. From where they stood, it looked like the third member of their party was on the precipice of being drawn and quartered. The very idea of this kind of torture, the image of their fellow General with his plating rent apart, internal constructs left without protection to whatever treatment suited their leader, was enough to make their circuits crawl and spark in sympathetic terror.
Having no desire to see Jetstorm skinned alive, Thrust turned his helm away, off-lining his optics. This was going to be messy.
In a way, he was right, though not in the manner he had expected.
Both Tankor and the wayward Thrust’s optics were called back to the ceiling when Jetstorm made the strangest noise either of them had heard in this manifestation of their lifetimes.
It was not quite a noise of pain, but it was very close. The husk in his tone never lessened, just smoothed over, as if ion sudden, pleasant realization. Jetstorm was leaning back as he had been previously, but it was obvious even from their disadvantageous position that he had relaxed. His arms remained bound, but as the cords continued their prying, Jetstorm merely sagged, allowing it where before he did not.
On-lining his optics with a strange sigh, Jetstorm lifted his helm to Megatron.
“So this is what you had in mind…” he trailed off, making a slow noise again when one of the cords wrapped around the joint that connected his left wing to his back. “Never took you for the type.” He did not sound entirely displeased.
Either Megatron’s resolve to not look was steely, or he didn’t notice Jetstorm’s purr, but he remained at work, tapping the holographic keys of an oversized monitor with no time or patience for anything else.
Thrust was at a loss as to what was happening. Jetstorm was moving again, but this time subtly chasing the cords as they crossed his chassis. One of the smallest ones snaked around a stabilizing fin on his helm and Jetstorm growled, low and deep. There was a hiss of depressurizing air, and the semi-circular dome on the front of Jetstorm’s hips, just above the wide line of his tail segment, slid back, revealing a previously secret array of panels beneath.
Snarling out a strained and humorless laugh, Jetstorm did pull against his restraints then.
“Surely, Excellence, there is a more appropriate way to go about this.” He spared a glance at the two watching below.
One of the cords, thicker than most, raised its end away from his body, just in front of the panels. Four short conductors extended from the sides, flowering open and crackling with a low charge. Jetstorm’s vocals sputtered in swiftly returning rage, another wordless exclamation of indignant surprise.
When the shock came, it was both swifter and more pleasurable than he would have either expected or admitted. With no preamble, both Jetstorm’s interfacing panels retracted sharply.
His spike was not pressurized fully, but the cords made short work of it for him, responding before Jetstorm was able to express his dented pride, after being essentially forced open. Twining around the unnecessarily decorative metal, they pressed and caressed in lines too small for servos to follow. Jetstorm seemed more or less happy about this, still snarling in only half subdued abhorrence, moving his hips towards the touching. They trailed up and down the glow of well placed and colored lighting, tracing the shaft like experienced hands inspecting a gun barrel. The friction was nice, certainly, and Jetstorm resisted less and less as he was carefully fondled.
The thicker cable, still poised below, turned its attentions to his secondary panel. The tines had retracted back into the rubbery seal on the end of the unit, but it still sparked around the tip with residual energy. Energy which, when applied to his valve’s outer ring of sensory nodes, made Jetstorm jump like a blown circuit. He laughed again, but this time it was shaky, almost fearfully laced with anticipation.
“Going for the gold, eh, Sir?”
The cable teased around the rim of his valve, making the ring of lights shine brighter each time it grazed one. Though none of them had noticed before, Jetstorm was already beginning to drip, luminescent lubricants drooling over the arch of his tail’s edge and down the frontal strut. He shuddered violently, plating rattling, when the tip nudged against the rubber folds. For once, he was at a loss for words.
Below, Thrust and Tankor were as mesmerized as confused. For his part, Thrust could positively say that he had no equipment even resembling the parts Megatron’s cabling now curled against above him. In the dark of the citadel, the glow from Jetstorm’s interface equipment highlighted it in the way it was surely designed to, drawing all attentive optics. The thickest cable not currently binding Jetstorm’s wrists swirled around the opening near the bottom of his panel, and Jetstorm writhed. Thrust was still unsure whether or not he should be worried for his friend’s (and, by extension, his own) safety, but he was also beginning to feel a little odd himself, hot and fascinated.
The cable pushed inside. Jetstorm doubled over, barking a laugh more maniac than usual. Both Thrust and Tankor jolted back in shock, thinking perhaps this was where things would begin to go sour.
Jetstorm was more enthusiastic than ever.
He curled in on himself, as much as his bonds would allow, snarling and panting and howling with laughter as the cords moved, without waiting. His thrusters were sputtering with effort, straining to simply keep him aloft. He bobbed up and down in the air like a trapped insect, struggling and twitching. Streams of lubricant had reached the edge of his tail segment and spiked stabilizers, fat droplets falling erratically to the floor, too spaced to form a true puddle but certainly creating noticeable wetness.
“Magnificence-!” his vocalizations were choked, a queer mix of high pitched hisses of air and rough rumbles of arousal. Megatron clearly was not going to acknowledge his General’s exclamation, and Jetstorm honestly could not find it in himself to care as his charge built and built, impossibly fast.
The cord inside Jetstorm pressed until it was forced to curl in on itself in the back of his valve, knotting, and he overloaded hard. Every servo in his body stiffened as he tried to choke back a wanton shout, electrical arcs skittering down the cords in direct contact with his interface panels. A thin spray of transfluid smeared against his waist, rolling back against the head of his spike.
Unfortunately, the force of the overload made his propulsion vents stall for too long this time, and he fell straight down. Though the wires remained around and inside him, they did not inhibit his decent at all, merely following, continuing their work. Jetstorm crashed, flat on his back.
Upon impact, the ones binding his arms left their post in favor of moving to assist the others below, and, given no time for recovery, Jetstorm scrabbled weakly against the ground before trying to grab at the wires inside him. He was oversensitive from his last overload, hurt from the fall, and still containing enough dignity to be taken aback by his companion’s interest as Thrust moved to him, close enough to see but far away enough to evade any attempts at his life.
“Th-that’s enough, your Excellency-Y!” he trailed off in an angry half-squeal as another cord wormed it’s way into his valve with the first, despite his best efforts. Jetstorm rolled onto his stomach, canting his hips backwards, trying to push himself up on his arms. His vents sputtered, a brief attempt to lift him away from the cold, hard surface of Cybertron, but he had very little grasp over his motor functions, shuddering hard.
“Stop!” He wasn’t begging, or pleading, or any of that weak, Maximal self-pity drivel. He was demanding, dignified as a General should be. The painfully ragged lilt in his voice was without his control and should be ignored, because he was definitely not begging, even if it sounded that way.
Jetstorm’s claws dragged against the metal flooring, carving shallow wells in their wake. The cords on his spike pulled and soothed, smearing his own fluids over himself and making the action easier on them both. His valve lining was on metaphorical fire, a third cable forcing it’s way in and moving with the others, flexing and pulsing, pulling him open. Embarrassed and frustrated, he pressed his face between his claws.
Thrust inched forward, testing the heat that rolled his compatriot in waves. Jetstorm could see him approach, one optic raised just above the ridge of his hands.
“Back o-off, biker-boy…” it didn’t sound as menacing as he had intended. Thrust could see his own face reflected in the growing puddle of lubricant beneath Jetstorm’s raised hips, ringed in a dull glow.
“What does it feel like?” Thrust was undeterred by any weak threats thrown his way. This was not the first time he had weathered a fit thrown by Jetstorm, though it was certainly the first he had seen where his companion was so unable to retaliate.
Jetstorm’s intakes blasted air. He dug his servos deep into the grooves he had just dug, growling in warning as Thrust reached out, touching his hip. Though he did look upset about it, he showed no resistance when Thrust pushed gently, angling his hips awkwardly to the side to give his fellow General a better view. Thrust looked rather awed by what he was seeing, enough so that Jetstorm forced out another, begrudging laugh.
“Like a million bucks.”
The cords wrapped around Jetstorm from all sides, and with the new positioning some of them were pulled back, spreading him wide. His valve quivered, slick and stretched taught. Jetstorm’s spike pressed heavily against his stomach, even at this angle, bright and wet.
Everything was wet, actually. He had created a sizable mess on both himself and the floor, growing larger every time the cables moved. Another overload was building in him, more slowly and ultimately more deeply than the first. Even the area Thrust touched was sparking, charged enough to give him little shocks every now and then. He did not establish any further contact with Jetstorm, or himself, but he did watch, enraptured, a kind of heat building in him as well.
The cables twisted and pushed, further, further. Little flecks of lubricant managed to fly as far as Thrust’s visor. He didn’t move to wipe them off, instead choosing to turn to where Jetstorm had curled his helm inward, resting it against his breast as he looked down at his own interface equipment. Their optics caught and held, a mutual jolt passing between them.
Jetstorm came, even more powerfully than before. His vents switched on and off rapidly, a long and guttural cry tearing its way from his voice box. Thrust never removed his hand, holding the ridge of Jetstorm’s hip even as he arched back, falling to his side on the floor. The cords remained, pulling and pushing him through it as long as possible, until he was so worn out that his vocalizer was just a static buzz and his servos stilled in their mad scrabble for purchase.
This time, he was left alone once he finished. Small tremors still plagued him, but when his intakes had returned to a regular pace, Jetstorm found his second (third?) wind and was able to right himself, lifting back into the air where he belonged. The cords slid out with a wet thump before slowly retracting to the dark abyss of the ceiling. Thrust let his hand slide from his friend’s chassis as he rose, watching as intently as ever. Jetstorm glared at him haughtily, the effect undermined slightly by his disheveled appearance. He flicked his wrist gingerly against his abdomen, wiping away a portion of the fluid congealed there. Some of the paint on his left check had scraped off, revealing a splash of silver beneath the gaudy blue.
“You are dismissed.” The words startled both of them. Megatron had not given them but a look or a wave of his massive mechanical hand, but they knew better than to try their luck. Tankor had already begun to leave, halfway down the tunnel leading to the outer chambers of the citadel. Thrust turned to see Jetstorm making his exit as well, bobbing somewhat erratically as he tried to remain stable. Feeling Thrust’s gaze, he paused, servos clicking together quietly as he flexed them. Thrust sincerely hoped he wasn’t questioning the profundity of the experience they had just, in some capacity, shared. He was feeling awkward enough on his own.
“You coming or not?”
Relief. Thrust shrugged nonchalantly, revved his engine once, and followed.
- 1
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