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Stakeout	By : Hambone Category: Transformers > Beast Machines Views: 1245 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers or any affiliated media and make no profit off my writing

Chapter List
- 1-Stakeout
- 1
Holed up in the wreckage of the world they had once co-owned, things were bound to happen. For beings of lesser standing, this would probably have been an emotional time. As Jetstorm continuously reminded anyone who would spare ten nano-kliks to listen, they were above that level of pitiful, organic sensibility. Far above.
Unfortunately, the only set of audio sensors online and able to hear about their superiority belonged to Thrust. After the Maximals first failed attempt to recruit them, they had struck off on their own, looking for somewhere to reevaluate their circumstances. Saving his fellow General from the spider had seemed like a good idea at the time, but it felt less and less so every klik.
Jetstorm would not stop talking. Maybe it was some sort of glitched coping mechanism. They had just lost their purpose on this world, after all. Normal bots would be prone to feeling vulnerable. Jetstorm, however, was anything but normal, and the most logical answer was boredom.
“Is it remotely possible,” Thrust began, cutting Jetstorm off for the first time since they had departed the citadel, “for you to stall that rust-encrusted stereo you call a vocalizer for one nano-klik?” Jetstorm whirled on him, optics glowing brighter as he diverted power to his shoulder mounted artillery.
“Excuse me, friend?”
“You heard me.” Thrust was in no mood to argue, and even less to deal with the inevitable brooding silence that would follow. Tankor had at least been short and precise, if a bit lacking in finesse. Jetstorm was theatrical at best, and could hold onto the most miniscule disgression for vorns.
“No,” came the increasingly bass snarl of his companion, “I don’t believe I did.”
That was all the warning Thrust received before Jetstorm’s shoulder plating slid back into battle formation and twin blasts of energy launched directly at his face.
Being accustomed to conflict, both of this nature and that of Jetstorm’s fits, Thrust dodged the assault just fast enough to remain in one piece. The blast did knock him off-kilter, though, and he rolled several feet before righting himself and returning fire. Jetstorm was no beginner, but neither was Thrust, who had managed to slide behind him and fired a shot dead center of his back.
It struck home, propelling Jetstorm into a nearby building. The force of the collision knocked him face first into the ground, and Thrust took advantage of the situation by rolling directly up beside him, holding Jetstorm down and aiming both arm-canons at the back of his head.
For a moment they were both still, waiting for the other to move. There was a quiet click of mechanics shifting, and then-
“Slag!” Thrust shouted, followed by a wordless grunt as Jetstorm flipped them over, thrusters reactivating and causing him to hover above Thrust’s chassis. He moved too fast to counter, pinning down Thrust’s weaponized arms with much larger claws.
“Watch that mouth of yours, biker boy,” said Jetstorm, the rough grate of his vocals betraying his temper, “Or do I need to wash it out?”
Thrusts helm slanted downwards, optic visor being given the illusion of narrowing behind its cover. Normally he wouldn’t take this scrap from anyone, but it was just them now. Fighting was probably about as helpful as sitting around on his fat tires while the Maximals planted their organic filth across the planet. Besides, Jetstorm was looking down at him with one of his weirder expressions, his grip slackening marginally. Maybe he could be coaxed from his tantrum.
“Look, this isn’t getting us anywhere,” Thrust reasoned, turning his helm to the side and cycling air loudly. What a bother.
“Aww, don’t be a sore loser now!” said Jetstorm, some of his usual mirth returning to his voice, as well as something else, smoother.
“In case you’ve forgotten, we’re both losers right now.” Thrust had hardly mumbled the words, but they hung in the air between them heavily. Jetstorm cocked his head to the side and sighed dramatically.
“Oh, pobrecita!” he moaned, taking one hand off Thrust’s arm to cup the side of his helm.
“What?” asked Thrust, but Jetstorm was already moving back more, allowing him to slide the upper half of his body into an upright position. The freedom of movement didn’t last long, as before Thrust could protest, sharp servos were wrapping chummily around his shoulders.
“Say, I know what could turn that frown,” he paused, tapping one claw to Thrust’s emotionless vocal grill, “upside-down.”
Past the point of humoring him, Thrust balanced himself on his wheel and pushed the offending hands away.
“Come on. We still need to find a shelter. Preferably one as far away from the menagerie as possible.” Jetstorm floated around in front of him, blocking his path.
“Don’t you wanna know what it is?” he pressed, obviously gleaning some pleasure from their one-sided sport. Thrust off-lined his optics, slumping slightly in defeat.
“I’m beginning to feel I have no choice.” Jetstorm ignored his dejected tone, skittering his servos up the side of Thrust’s arm.
“You need to relax, buddy,” he purred, vents humming loudly as he drifted closer. Thrust stared at him, resolve wavering as he tried to catch Jetstorm’s game. A single claw tip pressed to the cabling in his throat before trailing downwards, scoring a thin line all the way down to his wheel fork.
“Let’s get physical.”
The seductive voice was a normal part of their socializing, but the superfluous touching was not. Thrust’s borrowed spark stilled a beat when he realized, nauseously, that Jetstorm might actually be being serious. But Jetstorm was never serious.
“You’re not serious.”
He had said it as a statement, but Jetstorm took it as a question. One that he answered by gripping Thrust’s helm between two servos and pulling it to face him, chuckling darkly. Featureless at they both were, their optics met and that was all Thrust needed as proof.
Turning awkwardly, he faced Jetstorm full on. Though the memories of his past life were composed of nothing but blurry images of what he believed to were generally referred to as ‘flora and fauna’ from some distant planet and flitters of pain and confusion without context, he knew that even then he had had very little experience with this sort of thing. He didn’t deny wanting it though.
“Don’t be nervous, baby!” Jetstorm sang, catching on. He relinquished his hold on Thrust’s face in order to strike a saucy pose. It looked a bit off, with his sharp angles jutting out everywhere, but the curve of his breast and the bend of his wasp-thin waist drew Thrust’s gaze like a homing beacon. He reached up to him, unsure of where to begin.
Jetstorm was on him before he had the chance to embarrass himself. It was like a firm hug (something neither of them had ever experienced), but with more grabbing. A lot more. Jetstorm’s hands were big, and Thrusts were small, but they managed to make up the difference by the sheer amount of turf they covered in a short amount of time, curious and unashamed. Jetstorm just hooked his servos around the space between Thrust’s wheel fork, palming the bottom of his body with one hand while the other trailed up and down between his shoulders.
Though normally Jetstorm would never touch the ground unless debilitating injured, he now hovered mere inches from the cold alloy, scraping the surface occasionally when their movements shook him. Surprisingly enough, he didn’t talk, but he did laugh. Unnervingly. Thrust was not a particularly modest bot, but the way his partner carried on gave him the distinct sense that Jetstorm knew something he didn’t.
Putting it out of mind, Thrust’s servos moved lower, tracing the curve of Jetstorm’s tail, over the vents in the ridges of his hips. Tankor and Thrust had been build differently from Jetstorm’s model, vastly so. They were boxy and thick, efficient for what they were designed and nothing else. Jetstorm, though certainly designed with function in mind, served so many other purposes than simple flight maneuverability. He was smooth and light and large, equipped with fully dexterous hands where Tankor and Thrust just had glorified clamps. The strangeness of the form beneath his touch was undeniably arousing, foreign. Thrust had thought it such for some time now, even with his processor always ninety two percent devoted to the basic functions of track, engage, destroy. Despite the death of his master remaining a fresh wound in his circuitry, it was difficult for his thoughts to stray from anything but the sensuality of discovering each and every curve of the unfamiliar chassis.
They had both gotten incredibly hot incredibly fast, steaming like overworked exhaust pipes. That was why, when a loud hiss came from some part of Jetstorm’s lower mechanics, Thrust ignored it at first. A cooling vent activating, he assumed, or a byproduct of the steam. It wasn’t until Jetstorm coughed conspicuously, nudging his hips forward, that Thrust realized it was of some significance. He looked up at Jetstorm’s faceplate and was confused by how annoyed he looked. Jetstorm pulled back slightly, twisting himself into an exaggerated pose of exasperation.
“I know you aren’t exactly a pleasure model, Betsy-boy-“ Thrust snorted in indignation “-but I would expect you to know better than to keep a lady waiting.” There was no lady present, and Thrust refused to believe otherwise. He had half a mind to just shove off and leave the dramatics behind him when he noticed exactly where Jetstorm had been gesturing. A panel that curved over the swell of Jetstorm’s midsection, just above his tail segment, had slid back, revealing two smaller panels beneath it. His first thought was that it was a previously unseen weapons array, and that he had been again betrayed. Quicker than thought, Thrust jolted away, the lasers in his arms powering up with a soft whine. Jetstorm either didn’t understand what was happening, or (the far more likely option) he just didn’t give a smoking pile of scrap.
Forking his servos around the larger and lower of the two secondary panels, Jetstorm dragged his claws up and down, repeatedly, hissing. Apparently it was sensitive. Thrust hesitated, staring.
“Come on, lend a hand?” Though he didn’t power down his weaponry, Thrust scooted forward, looking between Jetstorm and the new part of his anatomy he was being presented with. Cautiously, he reached out and tapped the lower panel. Jetstorm was staring down at him expectantly (and more than a little amused at his expense, the stupid fragger) so Thrust repeated the action, this time more slowly, running the backs of his servos over the thin metal in an attempt to replicate Jetstorm’s earlier maneuvers.
This must have been the reaction Jetstorm wanted, because as soon as Thrust touched him for a third time he was grabbed from behind violently and held closer. Encouraged, Thrust did it again and was rewarded with a strong rake of desperate servos up his backside. Jetstorm pressed into him on all sides, muttering flowery words in a pleased tone.
There was another hiss and click, and the panel retracted as Thrust caressed it. He jolted, surprised, and then was immediately shamed for it when Jetstorm snickered, breathy and deep. Inside was what appeared to be some sort of rubber seal, split down the middle, slick with liquid. Entranced, Thrust scraped some off with his servo to inspect it further. Jetstorm growled lowly above him.
“That’s the ticket.”
Thrust was not entirely sure what was going on, but, surprising even himself, liked it. Jetstorm gripped both his shoulders and Thrust probed the rubber a bit harder. The liquid was viscous, thick, an almost transparent glimmer of opalescent particles visible inside. Pretty, one might think, had one been made in a way that allowed for such observations. Dipping a servo inside the slit, Thrust felt it quiver around him, Jetstorm denting the metal of his shoulder plating slightly as he snarled. It was not an unpleasant noise, and Thrust dug a little deeper in response.
“I showed you mine, biker-boy,” Jetstorm’s voice was husky and deep, a smoother version of the rough grate his tone took on when his sensitive temper was stirred, “now show me yours.”
Thick servos returned to the fork in Thrust’s wheel, palming the bottom of his chassis. Thrust was at a bit of a loss as to what Jetstorm wanted. He stilled his motions as Jetstorm fiddled around for a moment, searching for something on Thrust that he was not finding. The friction was pretty nice, and Thrust hummed appreciatively, but Jetstorm only seemed to be becoming annoyed again.
“Help me out here!” he snapped, removing his hand and staring impatiently. Thrust’s processor froze for a klik, doing its best not to disappoint but not having the foggiest clue as to what was expected of him. His optics wondered back to the mysterious panel in Jetstorm’s midsection, which was dripping slightly with more of the iridescent liquid.
Oh.
“I’m not, uh,” Thrust struggled for words, “I’m not really equipped like that.”
Jetstorm was incredulous.
“Whaddaya mean, not equipped?” Thrust rolled back suddenly as Jetstorm tried to lift him up, searching the lower half of his body for a set of tools that were not there.
“I mean I’m not equipped!” Thrust growled, feeling like he had been bated and switched one too many times recently. Jetstorm cocked his hips to one side, ridiculously large arms akimbo. It only served to bracket his apparently unique equipment more, juxtaposing his svelte waist and making him a highly desirable mess of frustration.
They stared at each other for a few nano-kliks, trying to figure the mood. Finally, Jetstorm broke the ice with a long-suffering sigh.
“Well, I guess we can make do.” Thrust was both insulted and intrigued; insulted by the implication that he was somehow inferior to Jetstorm simply because he lacked whatever that superfluous thing was, and intrigued by the hardly suppressed excitement tinting Jetstorm’s words despite his condescending tone. Jetstorm wrapped gentle servos around Thrust’s right forearm, pulling him closer. Drawn by the thought of further stimulation, Thrust allowed himself to be manhandled back into position. If this act ever saw a repeat performance, there would be no way in all the pits of Kaon that Thrust would allow himself to be used so readily, but for now he was curious, if not eager, to see what Jetstorm had in mind.
When Jetstorm pushed him against the wet heat of his exposed paneling, Thrust enthusiastically returned to his previous job of roughly testing the surface. Jetstorm curled a hand around his back again, coaxing him onward. The heat between them built again, quickly surpassing their earlier level of excitement. They were both a little too on edge, a little too angry and desperate.
It was hard to stay focused on his exploration of Jetstorm’s crotch when those claws found a gap in his armor and plucked the wires inside. Thrust’s engine revved, loudly and repeatedly, saying what his vocalizer would not. In his excitement, he slipped another servo inside the folds of Jetstorm’s valve. Jetstorm trembled, curling around him, his flight stabilizers shuttering and making him unstable.
“Put it in.”
Through the growing haze in his processor, Thrust gazed up at Jetstorm. His optics were almost offline, soft red glow bathing his face plates in an eerie wash of shadows. Skilled claws tweaked another cord in Thrust’s neck and his cooling fans thrummed.
“What’s that now?” he said, curling his servo back until it slid out of Jetstorm with a wet pop, looking right into his optics. It drove him insane.
Hand-me-down spark whirling, Jetstorm laughed without humor, dry and desperate. He grabbed Thrust’s retreating arm and yanked it back against himself, manually rubbing it against the slickness.
“Don’t play dumb with me!” his voice had reached a dangerous timbre. “Lock and load, sweetspark.” This was punctuated with a thrust of his hips, the thick weight of Jetstorm’s tail bobbing against Thrust’s chassis.
“You’re kidding.”
Jetstorm tugged his arm insistently, claws tightening enough to breach the metal plating on his wrist. Thrust’s visor narrowed, giving him the illusion of a sneer. He pulled himself free, scraping a layer of yellow mesh clean off.
“You’re glitched in the head.”
Thrust balled his servos and pushed his entire fist inside. Having been caught entirely off guard, Jetstorm howled. His propulsion fans stalled, and he dropped heavily down onto Thrust, who struggled to stay upright. The action also forced more of him arm inside Jetstorm’s valve, stunning him still, trembling. For his part, Thrust was enjoying the reversal of their rolls far too much. Even though he was no longer being stimulated himself, the tightness, the indescribable wet heat that now engulfed the end of his forearm, was more than enough. He could not, however, keep carrying his comrade like this.
When Thrust dumped him onto the ground, simultaneously ripping his arm back out to fresh air, Jetstorm snapped back to reality long enough to yell in unintelligible indignance. Thrust bore down on him just as he reactivated his vents, holding him with one arm and reapplying pressure to the outer rim of his valve with the other. Jetstorm grabbed the arm on his chest, torn between ripping it off in a fit of rage or pressing it more firmly against his frame.
Thrust pushed his arm back inside and the decision was made for him.
Jetstorm’s helm fell back, growling and panting as he tried to find himself purchase against the ground, sharp angles pressing uncomfortably behind him. Thrust pumped his fist, slowly at first, testing his limits. For such a slim-waisted mech, Thrust was surprised by how welcoming his valve was, by how far and how wide he could stretch it. He pushed his arm ever deeper, fanning his fingers and reveling in the uncharacteristically thin whine the action elicited. The rubber walls were shifting around him, holding him tightly as he moved, accommodating his width while simultaneously getting as much friction as possible. Thrust was small enough in comparison to his partner that the stretch wasn’t painful, really, but the sweet burn of being filled was enough to make Jetstorm seize beneath him as if being electrocuted. The claws of his hand not currently shaving the paint off Thrust’s stable arm were digging little troughs into the ground.
The clear liquid, which Thrust had surmised to be lubrication of some kind, was pouring out of Jetstorm like energon from a wound. The faster he moved, the more it came, splashing small droplets up past his arm joints to his shoulders and chest. Jetstorm’s other hand on him held so tightly it hurt, forcing his servos to drag across the curvature of his waist and up his breast.
“D-deeper, you glitch.” It pleased Thrust to note that Jetstorm was past the point where he could form a more creative insult. He willfully obliged the tugging hand, pressing two of his servos down hard against the armored plating of the struggling body and pulling back with force, peeling the blue paint to match his own silvery finish where much larger claws had performed a similar action only moments before.
Freed from its duty of begging Thrust to move, Jetstorm’s hand not seated tight in the metal flooring grasped blindly at Thrust’s hip, stroking up and down the geometric silhouette of his companion. Thrust rumbled, as close to pleased as he was going to get, and worked his arm faster. At this angle he was able to drive deep, ramming the back of Jetstorm’s valve without a hint of restraint. Jetstorm was arching into him, propping himself up on the corner of his tail vents and the shielding of his shoulder-mounted weaponry.
A charge was building in both of them, and tiny arcs of electricity flared and mixed between them. Jetstorm’s yelps had turned to ragged whines, vocalizer shorting in and out as little shocks lanced up his throat. His claws dug into Thrust’s side, finding a few sensitive transformation seams in the thick metal and making Thrust’s voice choke in a little cry of its own.
He pushed his arm as far as he could manage, twisting it inside as he caught himself, and Jetstorm overloaded. He pulled Thrust down on top of himself, unintentionally, of course, and curled in on him, head thrown back so far his neck cabling looked prone to snap.
The unexpected pressure of another warm body against his own was almost enough to send Thrust over the edge, but it was Jetstorm’s almost helpless shout of “biker-boy, frag” that did it for him. Arching in a way of his own, Thrust pressed harder (and subsequently deeper) than before, holding himself to Jetstorm as the latter flailed amid the waves of his own pleasure.
For a brief moment, Thrust thought he has fried his sensory net. It was dark, everything was wet, and the only sound he could detect was a high pitched static buzz that was coming from, he realized, his own audiles. The little shudders that prevented him from moving slowly died down, and he carefully shifted his body, running an automatic internal diagnostic program. Jetstorm made a vaguely bothered snorting noise, which probably had something to do with that fact that Thrust was still buried elbow deep inside his friend’s valve.
On-lining his optic visor, Thrust regained his equilibrium and slid away. The squelching noise his arm made as he removed it was suddenly less erotic than disgusting, and he inspected the soaked appendage with detached unpleasantness. They were going to have to find a cleaning station.
Jetstorm groaned again and Thrust turned his focus back to his recovering partner. He had closed the panel to his valve, but the main cover of his interface array remained open. It was probably for the better; he was such a mess with lubricant that closing it could stick him shut as it dried. It had run all the way down his tail, dripping slowly into little puddles around the sides of his chassis. Some of it had found its way into his hip vents, and it made a sluggish sputter when he reactivated them, limply floating back to his usual position a few feet above the ground.
Yeah, finding a cleaning station was definitely priority.
“That’s a good look for you,” said Thrust, shamelessly staring.
“Get fragged.” It was dismissive, without any real malice. Jetstorm’s voice box cracked with left over charge, exhausted. Thrust turned away, surveying the dark streets around them. What with their luck, he supposed, it was a miracle no Maximals had stumbled across them during their tryst. Jetstorm drifted past him, cracking a strut in his neck that had bent back into place.
Thrust revved his engine, more quietly than before, and followed, making sure to avoid the trail of wet droplets that fell behind them.
- 1
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Stakeout