Chapter Text
*Ping*
Prowl was very busy. The Decepticons were attempting to push back the line of control along the Iacon/Polyhex border. Despite the seeker bombardment, meant to soften up their position, the defending Autobots were still holding strong. However, Prowl knew that Decepticon ground assault troops would push forward after the seekers were done, so he was busy running the predictive models for the next wave of attacks. He didn’t have time for a personal emergency.
The Primus-forsaken program that ran the emergency comm for the reprogrammed mechs hadn’t gotten the memo, however. Bluestreak’s emergency alert pinged the channel shared by the rest of the Harem incessantly. The program had been designed to be impossible to be ignored, but they’d never expected it to go off in the middle of a firefight. It had been designed for sex-related disasters, not war-related disasters.
If it had happened at any other time, Prowl would just send an angry comm to whoever was domming Bluestreak and tell them to knock it off. But Bluestreak wasn’t playing around in somebody’s quarters right now. He was supposed to be in a sniper’s nest with his spotter—who was not one of his approved dominants—shooting seekers as they bombed Autobot positions.
Prowl knew that Bluestreak hadn’t snuck away for some illicit games. First, his tracking tag hadn’t moved, and second, the number of seekers dropping from the sky in his quadrant attested to the fact that he was currently doing his duty.
That meant that something wrong was happening to Bluestreak. Something wrong in a way that triggered the same stress responses as a scene gone catastrophically wrong.
:Prowl?: Optimus Prime’s comm was hesitant. He had obviously received Bluestreak’s emergency ping. Prowl figured that he was lucky that Optimus was the only one contacting him.
:Focus,: Prowl admonished his supreme commander. :I’m handling it.: He sent a quick update to the rest of the Harem group so that nobody else would do something rash and stupid.
Prowl opened a highly encrypted comm line with Bluestreak. :What’s wrong?: Prowl asked bluntly.
:Nothing,: Bluestreak responded, his voice uncharacteristically clipped. He was clearly distracted.
The surly snap was more reminiscent of Barricade than of the sweet submissive who enjoyed getting his doorwings whipped until they bled bright streams of energon. Despite that, Prowl could hear the stress in the mech’s voice.
:Where is your spotter?: Prowl asked. Snipers were always paired with a spotter while out in the field. The spotter’s job was to watch for trouble that the sniper, who was focused on the target at the other end of their scope, would miss. Spotters protected their sniper from getting shot in the back. They were also trained to look for stress and signs of cracking in a sniper and pull them out of the field if needed. The last thing the Autobots needed was one of their own going rogue and deciding to frag an Autobot commander or three.
Given that context, Bluestreak’s response was alarming.
:Don’t know. Don’t care where the fucker went.:
Prowl frowned. He needed to get to the root of whatever was going on with Bluestreak. However, one sniper’s issues were not a priority compared to the large battle going on. Prowl had a battle to run and a defensive perimeter to reinforce. He couldn’t deal with it now. So he needed to find somebody who could.
Prowl looked through his options and picked the best one. He opened a comm line.
:I need you two to extract a sniper and bring him back,: Prowl commanded the mechs on the other side of the line.
:Decepticon or Autobot?: Sunstreaker’s voice was an eager growl. Judging by the sounds filtering in from his side of the line, both twins were deep into the counter offensive pushing back the Decepticons. Right where they were supposed to be.
:Autobot,: Prowl replied. :He’s lost his spotter and is having unspecified trouble. I need you to retrieve him and bring him to Ratchet.:
:Got it,: Sideswipe replied. :We’ll bring him back without a scratch—at least none that he didn’t have before we got there.:
:Does he have a name?: Sunstreaker asked.
:Bluestreak,: Prowl responded. He sent both mechs an encrypted ping with Bluestreak’s coordinates.
:We got it. Twins out.: Both cut the connection abruptly, disregarding protocol that dictated that Prowl, as the higher ranking mech in the conversation, should be the one to decide when a conversation was over.
Prowl didn’t take it personally. That was just how the twins were. And as long as they completed their missions effectively, he didn’t really care.
Prowl pinged a short update to Ratchet so that the medic knew to expect Bluestreak and turned his full attention back to the ongoing battle.
***
This was not what Sideswipe had expected to find. It had been harder for the twins to find the sniper buried among the rubble of an old apartment block than they had expected. Prowl’s directions had been enough for them to find the approximate area, but they’d had to use their instincts and experience to find where Bluestreak had holed up. Sideswipe noted that it was a handy skill to have if the sniper wanted to stay alive for long out here.
What Sideswipe had expected to find, however, was a cowering civilian who’d somehow made it through basic training only to crack in the face of actual combat. Ironhide’s sergeants were usually better at weeding them out, but a small number always made it through. All the training in the world wasn’t a replacement for the energon and char of an actual battlefield. A gun pointed at your head was a lot scarier when you realized that the person at the other end of it was 100% prepared to kill you, so you had to kill them first or die. It was not unusual for the pressure to cause otherwise reliable mechs to snap.
Sideswipe hadn’t expected to find the sniper still in his nest with his rifle, clearly lining up a shot. Out of well-honed instinct he and Sunstreaker froze in place once they realized what Bluestreak was doing. It was better to let a sniper do their work without bothering them.
This was also the time when a sniper was the most vulnerable, with their entire concentration focused down the barrel of their scope and not on what was around them. Sideswipe took a quick look around and sure enough, Prowl’s intel had been accurate, Bluestreak’s spotter was nowhere to be seen. Apparently a mech had broken, and it wasn’t the sniper.
With the slightest squeeze of the trigger, Bluestreak took the shot.
Sideswipe didn’t take the time to see if the sniper had hit his target before stepping forward. “You gotta be more careful,” Sideswipe said as he crossed the debris-strewn floor towards the Praxian with the rifle.
Suddenly and unexpectedly Bluestreak curled into a ball as if he’d been shot in the abdomen. Static lightning curled over the edges of his plating.
Sideswipe made an alarmed sound as the mech went into convulsions. “Bluestreak?” he asked worriedly.
“He took out a seeker,” Sunstreaker reported, having watched the results of Bluestreak’s shot. Sideswipe, on the other hand, was too busy focusing on the sniper.
“Are you overloading?” Sideswipe asked, incredulously.
Bluestreak snapped his rifle up to point at Sideswipe’s face. Sideswipe was vaguely impressed that the mech was able to hold his rifle steady despite what looked like, under other circumstances, a mindblowing orgasm.
But it made no sense.
The three mechs were surrounded by an eerie quiet. In the distance explosions could be heard as the ground underfoot trembled from a seeker wing’s bombing run.
Sunstreaker’s growl warned Sideswipe. He threw out an arm to block his twin from charging the sniper who was holding a gun to his brother’s head.
“Cool down. Prowl sent us to escort you back to medical,” Sideswipe explained soothingly while sending a low powered ping. Once Bluestreak accepted the connection, he sent the verification code that Prowl had provided them with.
Bluestreak trembled with what looked to be the final aftershocks. It could be pain, Sideswipe reasoned. It would make more sense than a sniper who was literally getting off in response to killing. It also possibly explained why Prowl had ordered them take Bluestreak back to Ratchet, and not just back to base.
Whatever. That was a problem for Ratchet to deal with. It wasn’t Sideswipe’s job.
With a grunt, Bluestreak lowered his rifle and rolled to the side. He used both hands to push himself up off of the ground with visible effort. He was obviously no longer worried that the two frontline warriors would kill him.
“I don’t need to go to medical,” Bluestreak protested as he stood up, his rifle in one hand and a stubborn look on his face.
“Not our call,” Sunstreaker interjected, calmer now that Sideswipe wasn’t being threatened. “We’re following Prowl’s orders, and frankly I’m more inclined to listen to him than you.”
“Besides,” Sideswipe coaxed, “you can’t stay here without a spotter, it’s not safe. And before you ask, neither of us can act as your spotter. We’re not trained for it.”
Bluestreak’s mouth was pulled into a scowl, but the set of his doorwings relaxed enough that Sideswipe knew they were getting through to him. He motioned the twins to move out of the way so that he could pass them.
Sunstreaker kept a cautious eye on the sniper as Bluestreak walked past on shaky legs, but the other mech just dropped to his knees and pulled a rifle case out of a pile of rubble where it had been hidden. Bluestreak broke down his rifle with the practiced motions of a professional. Once he was done stowing all of the pieces in the case, he pushed himself back up to his feet, subspacing the rifle case.
“Let’s go,” Bluestreak said. The action of putting away his rifle seems to have calmed him down, and he was sounding less defensive now. “I put a hole in their commander’s spark, so the seekers will be looking for this place.” He tilted his head in a gesture familiar to Sideswipe. “They’re angling off to the south south-west currently, but it won’t take them long to correct their calculations to account for the heat distortion from the apartment blocks burning west of here.”
Sideswipe wasn’t impressed by the mech’s skill in reading the battlefield by sound and the vibration of the wreckage under their feet. It was a necessary survival skill for any soldier who wanted to survive long-term. However, the fact that Bluestreak had the ability proved that the mech in front of him was no raw recruit. It made Bluestreak a puzzle. A puzzle that Sideswipe wasn’t getting paid to solve. He also didn’t want to stand around much longer in a place that was going to become ground zero for an irate wing of seekers.
Sideswipe shot Sunstreaker a look. His brother understood immediately.
Sideswipe turned and started walking out of the room. “Sure, this way,” he said, motioning to Bluestreak to follow him. Belatedly Sideswipe sent Prowl an encrypted comm ping with an update. He got an automatic reply that his ping had been received. Not that he expected more than that. The commander was focusing on the battle.
Sunstreaker waited for Bluestreak to follow Sideswipe before taking up the rear guard to keep an eye out for ‘Cons. And to make sure that the mech didn’t decide to shoot Sideswipe in the back for some reason.
Speaking of weapons. “You got a sidearm for protection or something?” Sideswipe asked over his shoulder. He hadn’t seen any signs of integrated weaponry on the mech's arms, but Sideswipe assumed that Bluestreak had at least been given a pistol for close up protection. Snipers generally won’t sent to the front lines—they were more effective at a distance—but plans had a habit of fucking up spectacularly when encountering the enemy.
“Don’t worry about me,” Bluestreak insisted. “I know how to take care of myself.”
The kid sounded confident, but Sideswipe didn’t believe him. He’d heard too much bravado from soldiers before. They’d just have to be careful about avoiding any Decepticons.
“By the way,” Bluestreak said as they picked their way across a spray of debris underneath an ominously tilting overhang that used to be the second floor of a shop. (Despite the risk of getting buried beneath falling steel, it was safer to stay under cover than risk the open street.) “Sorry about holding you at gunpoint. It's a habit.”
Sideswipe rolled his eyes even as he felt Sunstreaker’s amused reaction to Bluestreak’s statement. “You weren’t a danger to either of us,” he pointed out bluntly.
“You’d be surprised,” Bluestreak replied with a laugh.
Sideswipe was getting annoyed by the newbie’s arrogance. It was a good thing that Bluestreak must have figured that out, because he shut up for the rest of the trek back to the safety of the rear lines and the triage station where Ratchet was working to stabilize the wounded for transportation back to base.
***
Ratchet wiped dripping cleanser from his freshly-washed hands as he stepped into the side room where Bluestreak was waiting. The last mech he’d been working on had been a bleeder. Fortunately Ratchet had been able to get him stabilized and ready for the next medivac back to base. The room was little more than a curtained off section of a larger tent. It was easy to set up and woven through with mesh that blocked the mechs inside from Decepticon reconnaissance. It was also well behind the lines. Bluestreak was sitting on a camp chair in the middle of the cramped space. Ratchet could tell from the way that he was holding himself slightly curled inward that the mech was uncomfortable. He glared at the two frontline warriors looming over Bluestreak. “Scram.”
Sunstreaker and Sideswipe bristled at Ratchet’s abrupt dismissal. “We got him here alive,” Sunstreaker griped.
“That you did,” Ratchet acknowledged. Bluestreak looked fine, with no obvious sign of damage. That meant that the problem that had triggered the protective programming was something not immediately obvious. Still, it wasn’t the twin’s fault. “I’ll tell Prowl you did a good job. Now, don’t you have better things to do than harass my patient?”
Sideswipe slipped out of the room first, making his escape while Sunstreaker was forced to walk around the medic to get out. Ratchet waited a moment for the two to get down the hallway and out of audial range before pulling the curtain across the opening closed. He crouched down next to the smaller mech. “You wanna tell me what’s wrong?” Ratchet asked.
“Not really,” Bluestreak said in a low voice, without his characteristic chattiness.
Ratchet couldn’t quite put his finger on what emotions were tangled up in Bluestreak’s body language. Meanwhile the other mech’s field was buttoned down tighter than Mirage’s spike. Whatever it was, Bluestreak was either trying to avoid it or hide it. Or both.
“Scans say you’re fine,” Ratchet explained. “I’ll need to plug in to take a deeper look.”
Bluestreak opened up the port in his wrist easily enough, offering it up to Ratchet.
Meanwhile, Ratchet was getting frustrated by Bluestreak’s silence. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I need to strap you down and pull apart your coding line by line?” he said in a carefully level tone, trying hard not to snap. The hardline didn’t show anything wrong with Bluestreak either. Nothing hardware or software related.
Bluestreak looked away before looking back at Ratchet. “I overload every time I kill.”
Ratchet blinked at the bald statement, then he dove back into Bluestreak’s code. Now that he knew what he was looking for, it only took a moment to find. It had gone unnoticed because it wasn’t, strictly speaking, an error.
“Fuck.”
“That’s the idea,” Bluestreak replied with a weak attempt at wry humor.
Ratchet unplugged and spooled his cable back up, tucking it away. “I can’t do anything about it right now. I have emergencies coming in; mechs bleeding out and broken. Something’s wrong, yes, but you’ll live and you’re stable.” Ratchet updated the medical systems with Bluestreak’s status. “You’re off the battlefield until I clear you—the situation isn’t bad enough that we need you in the field in your condition,” he interrupted Bluestreak before he could protest. “Stay here. Sit tight. When we get back to Iacon I’ll fix it.”
Bluestreak pretended not to hear it when Ratchet added, under his breath, “and tear Ironhide a new one.”
***
Bluestreak was nervous.
The battlefield was behind him. He was back in Iacon. Back in the heart of Special Operations where the rest of the Prime’s intimates lived. He was safe. The battle was over.
But he’d fucked up. Something was wrong with him. Ratchet had checked Bluestreak over once everything had died down, and what he’d found had had the medic scowling as he updated his files. Whatever it was, Bluestreak hadn’t been told. Yet.
Hours later, he was summoned to appear before the Prime. Worse, they had made sure that Mirage was back on base beforehand. His fellow slave’s hand was a warm point on Bluestreak’s shoulder, grounding him. The fact that they’d made sure Mirage was there to support Bluestreak didn’t point to good things.
The door opened and Mirage escorted Bluestreak in. Optimus Prime was sitting at his desk, Ratchet and Jazz flanking him. Bluestreak shot his master a concerned look, which Jazz returned with a reassuring smile.
“Bluestreak,” Optimus Prime’s somber voice demanded attention. “Can you tell us what happened in your own words?”
Bluestreak had already been debriefed by Jazz in exhausting detail. Optimus Prime undoubtedly had the records of that conversation. So Bluestreak stuck to a high-level overview of what happened.
“Sightline and I made it to the sniper’s nest that tactical designated for us and settled in. Everything was fine until...” Bluestreak hated how his voice cracked. “I started taking shots. And every time I was successful, I was rewarded.”
After Bluestreak stayed silent for several moments, Mirage murmured gently “explain what you mean by rewarded.”
“I was allowed to overload,” Bluestreak stated bluntly. “Sightline... I don’t know how he reacted. I was too busy recovering and lining up the next shot. I took a break after the first five, and by then he was gone.”
Optimus Prime nodded gravely. “Sightline’s actions are unexpected. He otherwise has an unblemished record, which is why we trusted him with your first time in the field. Currently he is listed as missing in action. Therefore we are unable to make any informed conclusions about why he ran away. Needless to say, the strike remains in his records, and should he show up in Autobot territory he will be investigated.”
Bluestreak nodded in acknowledgement. People went missing during wars. There were a lot of bodies left in the no man's land between the lines that remained unidentified. Not to mention people who just got lost... or ran away.
“When you say that you were ‘allowed to overload’, why did you phrase it that way?” Mirage asked quietly.
“Ironhide... It was fun. Hit the target, get an overload. It was very... motivational,” Bluestreak said with a fond twist of his lips. The shimmer in his field confirmed that it was a very pleasant memory.
The way Mirage’s hand tightened on Bluestreak’s shoulder was not missed.
“Ironhide is being disciplined,” Optimus Prime replied in a serious tone of voice. “While we are satisfied that he did not intend for this to happen, the fact of the matter is that it did and he must face the consequences. Normally he would be here to apologize in the metal, however given the circumstances it is inadvisable. Therefore, he is not allowed anywhere near you until the situation has been rectified.”
“What situation is that?” Bluestreak asked, confident enough in the fact that he was surrounded by mechs he trusted to question the Prime while he was acting in an official capacity. “‘Cause I gotta tell you, it’s not the first time that I’ve mixed around with weapons and sex, and that’s the first time anything like this has happened.”
Optimus Prime turned to Ratchet.
“It’s because of your reprogramming,” Ratchet explained bluntly. “Your code was, and in many ways still is, more malleable than an average mech’s. We’ve firewalled what we can, and put in guide rails, but shit happens. The good news is that it can be fixed, with a bit of work.”
It was only after Mirage’s arms slipped around Bluestreak, holding the mech tight that Bluestreak realized that he was trembling. “It’s okay. You’re wanted. They’re not going to get rid of you.” The steady murmur of his fellow submissive’s voice helped, but not really. Because Mirage wasn’t in charge. He wasn’t a master. They wouldn’t want a broken slave. A tool that couldn’t even work correctly.
Bluestreak fell to his knees, keening softly in despair.
A hand pulled roughly at his chin, forcing his head upwards until he met Jazz’s solid gaze. It stripped him down to the protoform, laying bare all of his inadequacies and worries. “You will be fixed. And you will serve,” Jazz stated as if it was an implacable fact of reality. “If you still want to,” he moderated his statement after a pointed cough from Optimus.
Jazz could feel Bluestreak’s head move slightly in a nod, it was as far as he could move with the way Jazz’s hand was holding his head in place.
Jazz looked towards Mirage, who had dropped down to kneel next to Bluestreak, supporting the other mech through his breakdown. “Both of you. Tonight. My room,” he ordered the other mech before standing and taking his place at Optimus Prime’s side once again.
“Bluestreak,” Optimus Prime's kind voice caught the distraught mech’s attention. “I am sorry that you are going through this. I’m sorry we didn’t catch it before it hurt you.”
Bluestreak shook his head. “Didn’t hurt. Felt really good actually. Except maybe for the part where it distracted me.” Bluestreak was experienced enough to know that, while fun, losing his focus on the battlefield could have easily gotten him killed. Either by a lucky strike or a counter sniper.
“Still, it should not have happened,” Optimus Prime concluded. He turned his attention to Ratchet, who was clearly exercising unusual amounts of patience because he was not done talking.
“You’ll have daily appointments with me for at least the next week,” Ratchet continued, “Until I’m sure that compulsion has been removed from your code and I’ve reinforced everything again.”
“Will I still be able to visit the rest of the base?” Bluestreak asked in a quiet voice. It had been promised that, after his first battle, he would be considered rehabilitated enough that he could leave the confines of the Special Operations part of the base and be allowed to mingle with the rest of the Autobots. Given what had happened, Bluestreak was concerned.
“Once Ratchet clears you, you may,” Optimus Prime responded.
Bluestreak nodded his understanding.
“One last thing,” Ratchet said, breaking into the conversation again. He gave Bluestreak a stern look. “No sex until I say you’re clear.”
Bluestreak gave Ratchet a wide-eyed, incredulous stare, but backed down under the medic’s forceful authority.
Ratchet turned his attention to Jazz and Mirage, who nodded silently, acknowledging the medic’s order.
Bluestreak startled when Ratchet proceeded to take a metal contraption out of his subspace and held it up so that the submissive could get a good look at it. He unconsciously backed up several steps, clearly fighting with his instinct to flee.
Mirage caught Bluestreak securely by his shoulders. Bluestreak could have fought Mirage’s hold easily, but he just backed up until his body stood flush to Mirage’s front, drawing comfort from his fellow slave.
“In order to make sure that you don’t do anything you shouldn’t,” Ratchet explained, the flat links of the belt running through his fingers as he unclipped the fasteners, “you’ll be wearing this any time you are not in medical with me.” He stepped forward, the supple length of steel in his hands.
Bluestreak shook his head, unable to say anything. Mirage’s hands held him, grounded him, but he still didn’t believe what was going on.
Jazz tapped Ratchet’s arm in a silent request for time, and slipped past the medic. He stepped in front of Bluestreak, sandwiching the mech between his master and his fellow slave. Jazz tilted Bluestreak’s chin so that the slave was forced to look him in the eye. “We are doing this for your own good. Ratchet doesn’t want you overloading and risking more damage to your code. I am ordering you to do this.” Jazz’s words became more forceful as he started with the gentle reasoning and went into his personal reasonings. “I know that you’re a little slut who can’t control themself. If I left you alone you won’t be satisfied until you’ve fucked every soldier in the Autobot army. In order to keep you under control, we—I—am locking you up. You won’t be able to wet your spike in a willing valve, nor will you be able to sheath any ready spike or toy.”
Bluestreak heated, there was a twist in his abdomen as his spike stirred and his valves lubricated. He opened his mouth, wanting.
Jazz smiled an evil smile as Bluestreak’s lusty field engulfed him.
Ratchet rolled his eyes at Jazz’s drama. “There are other alternatives, such as turning off your interface systems completely,” Ratchet explained. “However Jazz thought that you might be more receptive to this option.” He pinged Bluestreak, making sure that Jazz was aware of his actions and of Bluestreak’s positive response.
Jazz smugly held out his hand to take the belt from Ratchet.
Bluestreak felt pinned in place as his master slipped the belt around his waist. He shuddered as Jazz tugged the clasp shut and threaded a physical lock through the loops. The click of the lock snapping shut made Bluestreak jerk.
“Please,” he begged as one of Jazz’s hands reached between his legs to snag the end of the strap that would pass between his legs. Once it was in place, it would physically restrict access to his spike and valves. Bluestreak would be unable to receive physical stimulation. Unlike Mirage, however, the charge would not be drained by the chastity device. He would be left to stew in his aroused state without release.
Jazz ignored Bluestreak’s pleas and locked the strap to the front of the belt. “In case you think you’ll just find somebody willing to hardline, or play with tactile or field play, all of Special Operations knows what this means.” Jazz gave the belt an extra tug, making the locks chime. “No one will help you. If you attempt to overload the sensors in the belt will alert me. You are forbidden from leaving Special Operations until Ratchet has cleared you.”
Mirage’s hands moved over Bluestreak’s shoulders and doorwings, no longer holding the slave in place but soothing him gently. Bluestreak trembled as the implications of his current state sunk in. Mirage’s low voice was a reassurance. “This is not forever. Endure the discomfort, and dream of the reward at the end.”
Jazz touched Bluestreak’s chest, just above his spark. “You are so beautiful in your suffering,” he complimented his slave.
Bluestreak nodded shakily, reaching forward to grasp at his master.
Jazz allowed his needy slave to cling to him. He glanced over his shoulder towards Optimus Prime and Ratchet. “If that’s all, I have submissives that need reassuring,” Jazz said.
Optimus Prime glanced at Ratchet, who just chuckled. “Go ahead and attend to your lovers,” Ratchet waved a dismissive hand. “Let me know if you want any help. Or rather, don’t. I have half a dozen limb replacements lined up,” Ratchet corrected himself with a grimace.
Optimus Prime turned his attention back to Jazz. “Tend to Bluestreak.” A flick of Optimus Prime’s eyes let Mirage know that Optimus was addressing him as well. “Let us know if you need help.” With a nod of his head he dismissed everybody.
***
Jazz led Bluestreak and Mirage to his quarters.
Despite the fact that he was Jazz’s slave, Bluestreak wasn’t in the mech’s actual berth that often. Usually Jazz fucked Bluestreak in his office, or in one of the interrogation rooms. Their personal quarters were private. Even Bluestreak and Mirage had private quarters which their master, or any of their dominants, didn’t enter unless invited.
Bluestreak shifted uncertainly, the lock on his chastity belt chiming quietly as Jazz opened the door and walked in followed by Mirage.
Mirage looked back at Bluestreak, who was still waiting in the hall. He motioned, inviting Bluestreak into the front room. The door slid shut silently behind him.
They were typical officer’s quarters; a front room that doubled as a sitting room and office with a berth room and small washrack attached. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was larger than Bluestreak’s single room.
“Master needs to finish some datawork,” Mirage explained in a hushed voice. He stood between where Jazz was sitting at the desk in the corner and the open door of the berthroom. Jazz had a datapad cabled into his wrist, obviously taking care of something discreetly so that Bluestreak couldn’t see the contents. “Would you like to recharge now, or wait until he is done?”
Bluestreak shuffled his feet. “I’ll wait,” he replied.
Mirage gave Bluestreak a knowing smile. He fetched two flat pillows from a shelf and placed one on either side of Jazz’s chair before motioning Bluestreak forwards. Obediently Bluestreak took his place on his knees at his master’s feet. Mirage mirrored him on the other side.
Gradually, Blustreak relaxed. Something deep within popped as stressed cables and pistons let go of their tension.
Jazz’s hand came down and rested on Bluestreak’s helm. Bluestreak turned to nuzzle Jazz’s thigh, but didn’t make any moves to take things further. He was warm and content. And tired.
Eventually Jazz set aside the ‘pad he had been working on, clearly finished with whatever he’d needed to do.
Bluestreak followed Mirage’s lead as his fellow slave stood smoothly, picking up the kneeling pillow as he did so. The pillows were placed back on their shelf and Bluestreak followed Mirage into the berthroom in hazy, contented silence.
The three mechs prepared to recharge as if they’d always done so together. Bluestreak figured Mirage had done this several times before, so followed his lead as they crawled on top of Jazz’s obscenely large berth. It was easily large enough for Optimus Prime, though it would be a bit tight with the three of them.
Bluestreak rolled over to look at Jazz with curiosity. His master was standing next to the bed instead of joining his two slaves.
Jazz noticed Bluestreak’s questioning look. “Get comfortable,” he ordered. The black and white mech looked over at Mirage, who had rearranged the pillows to support himself and was pulling a warming tarp up over himself. At some unspoken cue, Jazz pulled out a sturdy, padded collar, not the usual dainty confection that Mirage usually wore. As he worked, he explained what he was doing to a confused Bluestreak.
“These are the rules,” Jazz said with a stern undertone of danger in his voice. “While you are in these quarters, do not attempt to be quiet. Even if I’m asleep and you don’t want to disturb me, do not attempt to conceal your movements. If you do, my reaction will be much more severe than if you just wake me up.”
Jazz fastened the collar around Mirage’s neck and chained it to the head of the bed. The chain was so short that severely restricted Mirage’s movements. It was obvious that they were not meant to be up and walking around without their master’s permission.
Bluestreak noticed the second chain attached to the head of the bed. It was clearly meant for him.
“These are here to keep you in place, and to keep you from sneaking around. It’s meant to keep you controlled enough that my systems won’t consider you a threat,” Jazz’s voice was harsh in its seriousness.
The fastenings, Bluestreak noticed as Jazz finished with Mirage and moved on to him, were not the type used when playing. They were not the type that a submissive could remove on their own. These were full-on SpecOps gear. Mirage and Bluestreak would not be moving until Jazz, or somebody else, released them.
Mirage reached out and pulled Bluestreak to him, cuddling his fellow slave. Bluestreak grabbed a couple more pillows to support his head and bumper before giving Jazz a nod.
“I need you to tell me you understand,” Jazz said, holding a second unbreakable collar.
“I understand,” Bluestreak was able to say after a moment, the heavy atmosphere of danger and comfortable intimacy lulling him into a calm state.
Jazz accepted Bluestreak’s answer, and Bluestreak angled his head to make it easier for Jazz to loop the collar around his neck and fasten it in place. The chain clinked softly.
Jazz climbed onto the berth facing Bluestreak and sandwiched the mech between himself and Mirage. Bluestreak was surrounded, immersed by the fields of the mechs he most cared about.
Jazz shoved some more pillows around, pulled a tarp over himself, and settled in. Without warning his slaves he turned off the lights in the room, plunging them into darkness lit only by dim biolights.
Eventually, they all fell into recharge.
***
Bluestreak envied Mirage for his cool, dispassionate composure. He felt like he was going to jitter out of his plating, he was so wound up.
For a week Bluestreak had been locked in chastity, frustrated to distraction, while Ratchet and SpecOps’ head mindbreaker worked on untangling his code. The moment they’d both agreed that Bluestreak was healed, Bluestreak had been ready for Ratchet to unlock him and fuck him silly over the side of a medberth. Instead, Ratchet had just smirked at him and passed Bluestreak off to Mirage, who arrived with Bluestreak’s collar, his favorite bit gag, and a leash.
As Mirage led Bluestreak through the labyrinthine hallways of Special Operations, Bluestreak mouthed at the bit between his teeth. It helped distract himself from the low warmth pooling in his array. He wasn’t self conscious as they passed other mechs. Let them know. They knew who he belonged to. Most of them had even fucked him at one time or another. Many of the ones that Bluestreak wasn’t completely sure about had likely fucked him from behind while he was strapped down on the bench in the breakroom. He could always go check the log book if he was curious enough.
Bluestreak wasn’t so distracted that he didn’t notice where they were going. The tension in his array ratcheted up as he realized that Mirage was leading him deeper, towards the detention and interrogation wing. Bluestreak barely noticed that he was making a soft, keening whine of anticipation as Mirage stopped in front of an unmarked set of doors.
After a moment, the doors opened to allow Mirage and Bluestreak inside.
The room they entered had been decked out like a torture porn set. There were racks of whips and pliers and seam splitters along the wall. A heated brazier with branding irons in it sat in one corner, giving off an acrid smell. There were spikes and blades and every type of implement that could damage, impale, bludgeon, and otherwise make a mech’s continued functioning very uncomfortable. It was wonderfully over the top.
Bluestreak knew full well that an actual interrogation room was never decked out like this, even when torture was part of the plan. For setting the scene, however, it was perfect. Bluestreak trembled in anticipation of feeling even one of those implements on his plating, on his under structure, or even on his interfacing equipment. The possibilities were endless.
Judging by the devious smirk Bluestreak saw on Jazz’s face when Bluestreak was finally able to pull his attention away from all the fun toys and to his master, Jazz was very aware of what his happy little slave had been thinking about.
Jazz raised his hands, beckoning Bluestreak to come closer. Mirage kept a loose hand on Bluestreak’s leash as his fellow slave stepped up to his master and lowered his head into Jazz’s welcoming hands, nuzzling them as Jazz cradled Bluestreak’s face.
“You’ve suffered so well,” Jazz crooned in a low voice that penetrated Bluestreak to the core.
Bluestreak could have talked around his gag, but didn’t. He’d been trained not to speak while wearing it, despite the fact that it didn’t actually stop him from speaking. He was a good slave. Instead he licked the palm of Jazz’s hand the best he could from behind the bit. It was barely a tease of sensation, and a plea for closer connection, for his master’s mercy.
He could tell from the expression on his master’s face that he would receive none. The thought made Bluestreak tremble.
Jazz unhooked the leash from Bluestreak’s collar, dropping it to the floor with a ping of metal on metal. Bluestreak could hear Mirage moving and the clasp of the leash sliding across the floor as the other slave gathered it up. Mirage then moved away, presumably acting on their master’s orders.
Bluestreak did not look away from his master’s visored eyes.
Jazz’s grin widened as he drew Bluestreak even closer. Close enough that their ventilations mingled, a bare breath away from touching. “You’re in for a treat,” Jazz said in a low voice that crawled into Bluestreak’s chest and wrapped itself around Bluestreak’s spark. “You will be tied down before your chastity belt is taken off. You’ll be given your first couple of overloads—spike and valve—enough to take the edge off. Then the fun will begin.”
Jazz placed a hand on the center seam of Bluestreak’s chest, fondling it suggestively. “We can’t do anything that would cause too much injury—not if you want to be seen outside of special operations any time soon. However,” Jazz’s grin turned into an evil smirk that wouldn’t be out of place on Megatron’s face, “there are many ways to inflict pain that won’t cause damage.” Jazz’s hands spanned the width of Bluestreak’s chest, as if measuring it. “At least, no visible damage.”
A wide-eyed and submissively compliant Bluestreak followed Jazz’s gentle guidance as the mech turned him around so that his back was to the interrogation table. A whisper of a touch had Bluestreak obediently bending over backwards, over the edge of the table. Jazz silently urged Bluestreak to lift his arms above his head where they were captured by Mirage. Mirage slipped a pair of stasis cuffs onto Bluestreak’s wrists, numbing his arms down to his elbows. The cuffs were then attached firmly to the other side of the table.
When they were done Bluestreak found himself bent backwards over the edge of the table with his feet on the floor and his arms anchored to the other side of the table, forming an arc with his body. It wasn’t a comfortable position, but the firmly padded cushion Mirage slipped under his back and wings was a welcome relief.
Jazz’s hands moved to Bluestreak’s hips, and the slave’s field fluctuated with frustrated excitement. He couldn’t see the satisfied look on his master’s face, but he could feel it in his master’s tightly controlled field.
“Bluestreak,” Jazz’s voice captured his slave’s attention. “I need you to confirm that you remember how to ping.”
Bluestreak pinged in response to Jazz’s request.
“Good,” Jazz’s praise reassured Bluestreak. “Now, let’s get you out of this.” He gently tugged at the locks on Bluestreak’s belt.
Bluestreak let out an incoherent whine.
Mirage stroked his arms reassuringly, but moved away soon after, leaving Bluestreak anchored only by his master’s hands on his hips.
The lock on the strap between Bluestreak’s legs snapped open and the strap fell, dangling from the belt.
Bluestreak quivered in excitement. The panels between his legs clicked open almost quicker than thought, allowing his spike to pressurize and exposing his moist and ready valves.
“Calm,” Jazz chided Bluestreak lightly, spreading Bluestreak’s legs and stepping between them to limit his slave’s ability to move. “If you move too much, I won’t be able to get the second lock off.”
Bluestreak froze. He knew from Jazz’s tone that nothing was going to happen until the belt was fully off, despite the fact that his array was now fully accessible. His master’s close proximity to his interface array was distracting, though. Bluestreak could feel the heat of his master’s body between his knees. He yearned.
Jazz’s fingers worked at the lock holding the belt on for longer than needed, teasing Bluestreak. Not that the slave was in any position to do anything other than take what his master saw fit to grant him.
Finally, the belt loosened, falling to the table before it was whisked away by Mirage. Bluestreak hoped he never saw it again.
Bluestreak also hoped that this meant that he’d be fucked like Jazz had promised. He wasn’t able to see Jazz smile as if he’d read his helpless slave’s mind.
Bluestreak felt Jazz step backward, leaving him alone and untouched. He whimpered.
Jazz chuckled. “Don’t worry,” he reassured Bluestreak. “I’m just getting out of Mirage’s way.”
Sure enough, Bluestreak could feel Mirage’s cool, focused field. His fellow slave’s shoulders brushed his thighs as Mirage took Jazz’s place. Bluestreak spread his legs wider in anticipation.
“He’s at the edge,” Jazz commented. “It won’t take much to make him come.”
Bluestreak screamed as Mirage took Bluestreak’s spike in his mouth, swallowing it with brutal swiftness. Bluestreak overloaded nearly instantaneously, having been kept at a simmering state of arousal for days. Just as quickly as Bluestreak overloaded, however, Mirage pulled back.
Bluestreak protested wordlessly. The overload had been fast and unsatisfying. He wanted more.
Jazz crooned seductively, as if reassuring his bound slave. “Don’t worry, next it will be your valves.”
Bluestreak could hear Jazz and Mirage moving around at his feet, but with how he was bent backwards he couldn’t see them. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Jazz chose to narrate what was going on.
“I want to come inside your valve as you overload,” Jazz’s voice was breathless in a way that Bluestreak recognized as his master becoming aroused. “But if your spike is any indication, you’ll come as soon as I impale you. So I’m gonna need some prep. Fortunately, I have the best spike sucker in the army as my personal slave.”
Bluestreak could hear the moist sounds of Mirage working. He couldn’t see it, but he knew exactly what Mirage looked like at Jazz’s feet, his face buried in Jazz’s crotch as he served his master.
“Kitten licks,” Jazz instructed, “I don’t want this to be over too quickly. And Bluestreak deserves to wait a bit after his first overload.” He said the last in a darkly commanding voice.
After an agonizingly long moment, as far as Bluestreak was concerned, Jazz sighed. “Just like that. You know exactly what I like.” He hummed in wordless contentment. “I let you have Bluestreak’s first overload, thank me for it,” he commanded Mirage.
“Thank you master,” Mirage replied softly before turning his attention back to his master’s spike.
Bluestreak trembled. This was going to take forever. Mirage was talented enough to make a mech shoot their load in seconds, but he was also able to keep a mech at the edge of coming for hours. If Jazz really wanted to draw things out, he could, and there was nothing Bluestreak could do about it.
Bluestreak widened his legs, exposing himself further, and leaned back as much as he could, pulling his hips upward enough to draw attention to himself. He was trying to make himself look as delectable as he could. He wanted to entice his master to give him release. The first orgasm had taken the edge off his spike, sure, but with it temporarily sated it left his valves aching. Part of Bluestreak knew that he’d be well fucked before he was allowed out of the room, he only had to wait. But another part of him wanted to be fucked now, not later. Faster. Harder. More painfully.
Jazz understood how Bluestreak thought, however, and wasn’t ready to stop tormenting his pretty little Praxian slave.
“You’re so good at this, Mirage,” Jazz’s voice was full of praise, rewarding his loyal slave. “You know exactly what I need.”
“You’re ready, master,” Mirage’s soft voice said.
Bluestreak couldn’t see Jazz’s reaction to Mirage’s statement, but he could feel his master moving between Bluestreak’s spread legs.
“I’d ask you if you were ready, but we all know what the answer would be,” Jazz commented, running his hands up Bluestreak’s thighs.
Bluestreak sobbed at the tease as Jazz thumbed the rim of his forward valve, testing how warm, slick, and inviting it was. Excess charge snapped between Jazz’s fingertip and Bluestreak’s sensitive node.
“Beg me,” Jazz ordered darkly.
Liberated from his trained wordlessness, Bluestreak started babbling, his words slightly garbled around the bit in his mouth. “Please master!” He thrust his hips forwards as much as his bondage would allow, trying to widen his legs even further despite having no purchase. “Use me, I am yours!”
His master didn’t seem to be in the mood to draw out Bluestreak’s supplications. Mirage’s skillful tongue had doubtless brought Jazz up to the edge of his endurance. His master’s spike breached Bluestreak’s valve in one smooth thrust.
The sensation was too much after days of denial, and Bluestreak convulsed as he overloaded. Jazz followed barely a moment later, snarling as he flooded Bluestreak’s valve with his warm transfluid, marking the submissive mech as his.
Jazz allowed himself to rest on Bluestreak’s chest for a few minutes, enjoying the trembling of the mech trapped below him and the lingering glow of his overload as Bluestreak’s valve continued to spasm, milking Jazz dry.
Mirage knelt nearby, waiting on his master’s next order.
Bluestreak wasn’t yet fulfilled. His spike had overloaded, but only one of his valves had. He could feel the built up charge lapping at his frame despite his two overloads. He prayed his master wasn’t done with him yet. Based on what Jazz had promised his slave, he probably wasn’t. But Bluestreak wouldn’t put it past Jazz to give in to his sadistic streak and keep him hanging in anticipation.
Jazz planted a hand on Bluestreak’s chest, pushing himself up and out of the bound mech.
Bluestreak waited, it was all he could do. His gagged mouth hung open as far as it could as his systems tried to bring down his core temperature. He heard Mirage moving around, doubtless bringing their master the next implement he’d chosen to torment Bluestreak with. The slave had no way to see what might be happening to him next.
The feel of a slim false spike slipping into his aft valve was almost a disappointment, but Bluestreak knew his master too well by now to think that it was something as simple as it appeared. Still, the gentle sensation was an unbearable tease for Bluestreak as Jazz stroked it in and out of his valve, barely simulating the sensors. It wasn’t nearly enough to get Bluestreak off, even as keyed up as he was.
Bluestreak moaned in anticipation as the spike started growing, adding additional pressure against the walls of his valve as Jazz continued to thrust. However, as Jazz pulled it in and out it slid smoothly over the sensors of his valve, delightful, but frictionless.
Gradually, the false spike grew to fit Bluestreak’s valve perfectly. Bluestreak groaned as the additional stimulation and stretch started ramping up his charge slowly. However, the false spike ballooned larger still as Jazz gave it one last push, embedding it in as far as it would go. Jazz held it firmly in place with the palm of his hand.
Bluestreak could feel the lips of his valve stretching around the width of the spike as it continued to grow even larger. The spike filled Bluestreak to the point that it felt like it would tear him open. Bluestreak keened at the sensation of stretch and fullness and terror/anticipation at the thought of being wrecked at his master’s hand.
Bluestreak felt bloated by the spike in his aft valve. The stretch was just this side of unbearable pleasure. He twisted at the sweet sensation that laid just at the edge of pain.
Jazz chuckled darkly, and with a twist of his hand did something.
Bluestreak screamed as sharp spikes shot out of the body of the false spike. It felt like his valve lining was being impaled, pierced through. His valve was being ruined at the whim of his master, and the thought made the warmth Bluestreak felt in his lower abdomen coil tight and explode. He sobbed as his overload caused his valve to clench on the brutal implement. He could feel every sharp point embedded in the walls of his valve drag as the lining rippled with overload. The pain was amazing.
Eventually, Bluestreak came back to coherence, at least as much as he was capable of. He responded to Jazz’s ping mostly out of conditioned reflex.
Jazz’s hand was warm where it sat on Bluestreak’s abdomen, holding him down. Anchoring his slave to the here and now.
“Feels amazing, doesn’t it?” Jazz commented slyly. He continued to speak, obviously not expecting Bluestreak to respond. “It’s barbed like a cybercat’s spike. The dominant cybercat uses them to hold the submissive in place while they breed them. It doesn’t actually destroy your valve, but it sure felt like it, didn’t it?” Jazz’s voice was rich with fond memories.
Bluestreak absently wondered who had used this spike on Jazz. It was too extreme for Optimus’ tastes, even when serving the needs of a submissive. Probably Prowl. The only mech more sadistic than Jazz in the harem.
It hadn’t shrunk in size even a little bit, and Bluestreak knew that Jazz had more plans for it.
“It might not have caused any damage yet, but if I was to pull it out fully inflated like this,” Jazz tugged at the spike still embedded in Bluestreak, causing his slave to squeal in pain as the motion caused the spikes to pull at his valve lining. “It would rip your valve to shreds.” Jazz made a considering sound, as if he was contemplating doing just that. “You are mine,” he mused.
Bluestreak wanted. He didn’t know if Jazz’s previous order to ‘beg’ was still in effect, but he took the chance.
“Please,” Bluestreak whispered brokenly.
“What was that?” Jazz asked. Bluestreak could feel his master lean over him, one hand planted on Bluestreak’s abdomen. The position put pressure on the barbed spike in Bluestreak’s valve, causing him to squeal at the punishing sensation.
“Please!” Bluestreak sobbed as Jazz shifted his weight, manipulating the false spike through Bluestreak’s plating, sparking waves of fresh pain.
“You want me to wreck you?” Jazz teased.
“Please!” It was all Bluestreak could say.
“We’ll see.” Jazz laughed cruelly. “You’ll just have to find out.”
Bluestreak shook his head fitfully as he felt Mirage’s cool field wash over him. His fellow slave was unfastening Bluestreak’s shackles from the table. Bluestreak clenched his fists, fighting back the urge to touch.
“Hush,” Jazz warned his slave as he tapped at Bluestreak’s lips. “That’s enough out of you.”
Bluestreak was only able to protest wordlessly as Mirage gently helped him lower his arms.
He shrieked again as Jazz pulled Bluestreak forward, up off of the table and onto his feet. Even with his feet splayed out as wide as he could, the pressure of the barbs against the sensitive lining of his valve was an exquisite torture. It was all Bluestreak could do to stand upright as pain exploded from his rear valve, up his spine, making his vision white out from the force of it.
Bluestreak could feel his master’s sadistically pleased field against his plating as Jazz supported him, keeping his slave upright against the oncoming waves of indescribable pain as every little change in position set off new waves of pain. Heat rose from under his plating as the pain transformed slowly into indescribable pleasure. The signals from the pleasure sensors in his valve mixed with the pain and damage warnings into a heady cocktail of sensation.
Bluestreak clung tightly to the promise that his master wouldn’t leave him to suffer without a reward. Bluestreak also knew that the reward could be just as painful as the agony he was currently in, and the potential of it excited him.
Jazz helped Bluestreak turn in place before tapping his chin, catching his slave’s attention. “Look at what we’ve prepared for you.”
Bluestreak struggled to focus in the face of a fresh wave of pain from his valve. After a moment his visual center was able to recalibrate and he could see that in the corner of the room a padded bench had been set up. It was large enough to support his head and torso, leaving his legs to dangle off the end. There was something unusual about the end of the bench facing Bluestreak, however. Something was embedded in the bench that looked suspiciously like a false valve. If Bluestreak was laid across the bench lengthwise, the false valve was in the perfect location to fit his spike.
Bluestreak trembled with excitement. What if the valve was also lined with barbed spikes? There were a thousand evil tricks that his master could have equipped the spike sleeve with to torment Blustreak with.
Jazz adjusted his grip carefully until he was standing behind his slave. “Mirage,” Jazz commanded, not needing to elaborate.
Mirage obediently knelt down in front of Bluestreak and lapped gently at the tip of his partially erect spike. Bluestreak groaned and grabbed at Mirage’s helm as his fellow slave wrapped his lips around the tip and started to suckle gently. Bluestreak wanted to fuck Mirage’s face, but a warning tap against the back of his wrist caused him to release Mirage. Instead, Bluestreak grabbed at Jazz’s forearm, needing something to hold on to as Mirage gradually swallowed his spike to the hilt.
Bluestreak was in heaven. Mirage was an expert, and the rising pleasure was mixing with the persistent pain from his valve in a deliciously heady concoction.
All too soon it was over, though, as a silent order from Jazz stopped Mirage, who let Bluestreak’s now hard spike slip gently from between his lips.
Bluestreak whimpered again. He’d already had one spike overload, but his systems had been specially designed to accommodate multiple overloads. He needed more.
Jazz’s hands urged him gently but inexorably forward, forcing Bluestreak to take one shaky step after another. The pain of walking was indescribable. Walking while impaled with an oversized spike was difficult enough. The addition of the barbs, however, turned an inelegant waddle into a torturous, nearly impossible, test of endurance.
Bluestreak leaned back into his master’s supporting arms. Jazz’s satisfied field surrounded him with possessive care. As he got closer to the bench, Jazz reached around to grip his spike firmly, making Bluestreak whimper at the sensation. Mirage’s cool hands and field were a welcome relief as his fellow slave joined their master, their hands guiding Bluestreak as he bent forward, slowly, ever so slowly, wincing at the wash of warm pain as the barbs shifted with every movement.
His master’s hand guided Bluestreak’s spike into the false valve. The soft, warm pressure was a welcome relief. It provided a soothing counterpoint to the confusion of sensation coming from his valve. Bluestreak tried to thrust his hips forward, hoping to be able to generate more friction.
“None of that.”
Bluestreak made a frustrated sound, shaking his head in denial as Mirage held his hips down. Jazz wrapped restraints around Bluestreak’s waist, thighs, and ankles, holding the bottom half of his body firmly in place and immobile.
“Don’t worry. I have plans for this,” his master said, one finger teasing at Bluestreak’s unoccupied valve. Bluestreak could feel his master’s spend dripping slowly from his valve, only to be unexpectedly licked up.
Bluestreak gave a high-pitched squeal of surprise. Mirage’s tongue—Bluestreak could feel Mirage’s field between his legs—lapped gently at the outer lips of Bluestreak’s forward valve.
“Master tastes so good on your lips,” Mirage commented breathlessly, before going back to gently teasing Bluestreak’s valve.
Bluestreak whimpered. Mirage’s attention was welcome. However, his fellow slave had clearly been told not to pleasure Bluestreak to overload. Mirage’s touch was slow and deliberate, warming Bluestreak up gradually instead of driving him towards overload. It was a pace that Bluestreak knew from experience that Mirage could keep up for hours.
There were times that Bluestreak would have enjoyed laying back and letting Mirage slowly work his magic, but this was not one of those times. Bluestreak wanted to be fucked; fast, hard, and brutal.
Distracted by Mirage, Bluestreak was startled by his master’s hands on his back.
“Do I need to tie the rest of you down?” Jazz asked.
Bluestreak shook his head.
“Then behave,” Jazz replied. He came around the bench to crouch in front of Bluestreak so that the bound mech could see him. It also allowed Bluestreak to see the slim case in his master’s hands. Jazz opened the case, turning it so that Bluestreak could see the wickedly sharp needles inside.
“Do you know what these are?” Jazz asked conversationally, picking up one and twirling it expertly between his fingers.
Bluestreak couldn’t nod fast enough, his field exploding with a new layer of want.
Jazz grinned evilly. “I’m gonna tell you anyway. Anticipation makes the build up that much sweeter,” he commented. “These little beauties are how I’m gonna be able to torture you without getting on Ratchet’s bad side by sending you to the medbay. I’m gonna use these on your doorwings. I’m gonna slide them in between the joints, and through your neural lines. It will be agonizing. Any movement—if you so much as twitch—will generate the most painful feedback through your sensory net. And doorwings have so very many sensors to play with.”
Jazz set the needle he’d been playing with in the box and closed it. “I’m gonna ask you again, do I need to tie you down?” he asked Bluestreak, Jazz’s steady gaze underscoring how serious the question was.
Bluestreak actually thought about it this time, and Jazz gave him the time he needed.
Reluctantly, Bluestreak nodded. As much as he loved the ability to writhe and grind in response to what was done to him, it would be safer if he was more fully restrained. Besides, it’s not like Jazz would restrict his movements entirely. If Bluestreak was reading his master's intentions correctly, Jazz was intending to make him move. How, Bluestreak didn’t know. But he did know that his master wasn’t going to go through the effort of placing all those needles and not play with his toy afterwards.
Jazz’s approving field warmed Bluestreak to the core as his master secured Bluestreak’s wrists to the legs of the bench. A ping was received by Bluestreak’s systems and was answered quickly and affirmatively. He couldn’t wait for the next stage of his reward to start.
The door to the room slid open nearly soundlessly. Despite the fact that he was facing away, Bluestreak could sense the arrival of another mech. The ping that was sent out as the door closed identified the mech as Prowl.
Jazz looked up at Prowl with a smile. His hands moved up Bluestreak’s arm as he stood up. “So good of you to make it,” he welcomed the other black and white mech.
Prowl nodded.
“Mirage,” Jazz called lightly, bringing his slave’s attention to himself.
Mirage pulled away from Bluestreak’s valve, sitting back on his heels and placing his hands neatly on his thighs, obediently waiting.
Bluestreak moaned piteously, rubbing his face against the padded bench as he tried to look in the direction of the two masters.
“Due to recent events, Prowl is going to be overseeing what is going on,” Jazz explained. “That way, Mirage, you can stop holding back.”
Mirage opened his mouth, as if to answer, only to be hushed by Jazz with a knowing look. He moved to stand in front of his first slave and knelt down, cradling Mirage's face in his hands. “You’re protecting Bluestreak, and that is good. But you also need to be able to let go,” Jazz murmured, running a thumb across Mirage’s lubricant-coated lips. Mirage’s tongue chased his master’s touch. “Relax. Let us take the burden and just let yourself feel.”
Mirage’s optics flickered as he sagged almost imperceptibly into Jazz’s hold.
Prowl passed master and slave where they kneeled in a silent tableau and walked up to Bluestreak, placing a gentle hand on the grey mech’s shoulder. “May I?” he asked, passing his hand over one of Bluestreak’s hardline ports.
Bluestreak nodded, mouthing the bit gag as he opened the cover, allowing Prowl access to his systems.
Prowl’s mental touch was deft and skilled, not touching anything he didn’t mean to touch, as Bluestreak’s firewalls slid aside to allow Prowl a glimpse of Bluestreak’s programming.
Mischievously, Bluestreak shifted his hips as much as the band around his waist would let him. The movement set off a chain reaction of sparkling pain that seasoned the low simmer of pained pleasure that his valve had settled into. Prowl, cabled in with Bluestreak, was not immune to the feedback.
Prowl flicked a finger against the side of Bluestreak’s helm in gentle retaliation, giving the bound submissive a short jolt that was more surprise than pain, before disconnecting.
“You’re doing fine,” he reassured Bluestreak.
Turning to Jazz Prowl gave the other master a significant look. If something more passed between them, Bluestreak couldn’t detect it.
Prowl moved to a corner of the room off to Bluestreak’s side where a chair had been set up. It was a large, heavy thing with manacles attached, meant to hold prisoners—or unruly slaves. Prowl sat on it with all the gravity of a command chair, settling in to watch the show.
Jazz took one last look at Mirage. Whatever he saw satisfied him. He stood up, gently nudging Mirage towards Bluestreak’s neglected valve. “Go ahead and give him as many overloads as you like.”
Moving to stand next to Bluestreak, Jazz pulled the box of needles out of his subspace and placed them on Bluestreak’s lower back. “Overload as many times as you can,” Jazz ordered, the box opening with an ominous click. “Enjoy your pleasure while you can.”
Mirage’s tongue lapped gently at the stretched outer folds of Bluestreak’s tormented rear valve.
Bluestreak tried to shift his hips to follow the teasing warmth, only to be stopped by his bonds and by the flare up of pain from the barbed spike in his valve. He keened softly into the padding of the bench at the fresh wave of pleasured pain as he realized that the short reprieve granted to him by Prowl’s arrival was over.
“That’s right,” Jazz said absently as he pulled a needle out of the case, “I almost forgot.”
The false valve around Bluestreak’s spike quivered and Bluestreak groaned in anticipation.
“I had thought about using a barbed valve as well,” Jazz commented musingly as he leaned over to get a better look underneath the armor panels on Bluestreak’s back. Locating the cluster he was looking for, he swiftly inserted the needle in one smooth stroke.
The insertion was painless. For now. Bluestreak could feel it going in, but he knew that the true pain would come later as his master made him dance to his tune.
“I wonder if I could make you so delirious for pleasure that you’d fuck a barbed valve until your spike shredded,” Jazz mused as he picked out another needle.
Bluestreak trembled at the thought as the false valve started moving rhythmically, pumping his spike slowly and methodically even as Mirage gently teased at the nodes surrounding his valve lips.
“I’d love to rip this false spike out of your valve and fuck the bleeding hole,” Jazz said conversationally, as if he was talking about the latest lob-ball game.
Bluestreak was floating high on pain and pleasure—mostly pleasure—as Mirage coaxed him into a gentle overload. The sheath milked his spike, the transfluid draining off somewhere, leaving the false valve the perfect amount of slick.
Through a haze of pleasure, Bluestreak listened as his master talked about the things that he’d love to do to his painslut of a slave. Most were fantasies that they had talked about before, pulled out of a reluctantly eager Bluestreak by Jazz’s and Prowl’s persistent questioning. The words were less important than the meaning behind them, though. Bluestreak was Jazz’s. Jazz’s to use. Jazz’s to abuse. Jazz’s to care for. Because Bluestreak was Jazz’s, and Jazz took care of his toys.
Meanwhile, Jazz methodically inserted the sharp needles one by one, letting his slave enjoy a brief pleasurable interlude.
As Jazz walked around Bluestreak so that he could reach the other doorwing, he passed by Mirage. Taking a moment for his other slave, Jazz caressed Mirage’s helm, silent praise reflected in his field. The feeling made Mirage tremble beneath his master’s hand, though he was too well trained to let it interrupt his focus on Bluestreak’s valve.
Jazz dropped his voice into a register that he knew would resonate across the sensors of Bluestreak’s (and Prowl’s) doorwings in a deliciously intriguing way as he continued to describe the things he’d do to Bluestreak. If he had access to unlimited repairs (there were only so many repairs he could have done by SpecOps medics behind Ratchet’s back before he was caught). If Jazz was unshackled by Prime’s morality or Prowl’s control.
Bluestreak was clearly floating mindlessly on pure sensation as Jazz silently ordered Mirage to prepare for the next step. Jazz turned up the intensity of the false valve’s milking to compensate Bluestreak for the loss of Mirage’s talents as Mirage pulled away.
As Jazz finished placing the last few needles, Mirage pulled the fucking machine into place and finished preparing it.
A nod of Jazz’s head ordered Mirage to stand by Bluestreak’s head.
Bluestreak’s optics were unfocused and hazy, but he knew when Mirage knelt down in front of him. His fellow slave cradled Bluestreak’s head in his hands and brought their lips together in a passionately gentle kiss.
Bluestreak could taste his lubricant on Mirage’s lips. He lunged forward, or tried to, and screamed as the abrupt movement caused his doorwings to sway. The needles skewering his nerve lines and sensors pulled and pushed, sending shockwaves of pain through the highly sensitive appendages. Despite that, Bluestreak poured all of his thanks and desperation into kissing Mirage. The bit gag got in the way, but neither mech minded.
Bluestreak sighed as the rounded head of a false spike nudged up against the lips of his unoccupied valve. It would be a stretch, he knew, to fill both of his valves. And the second spike would rub up against the barbed spike in his other valve, separated by only a thin layer of sensor-laden protoform, doubtlessly aggravating and sharpening the dull pain Bluestreak currently felt. However, Bluestreak didn’t try to avoid the penetration, not that he could.
Bluestreak groaned as the false spike slid in smoothly. It was ridged in a way that would be delicious under normal circumstances. Now it was fiendishly delightful how it pinched the sensors in the walls of his valve against the barbed spike, setting off a fresh wave of pain.
Jazz pushed the false spike in as far as it could go, and Bluestreak felt something unusual. There was a long crossbar at the base of the spike that pushed up against the back of his thighs. It was drastically oversized if its only purpose was to prevent the spike from pushing any further inward. Bluestreak was confused.
Bluestreak could feel the false spike jerk and twitch in his valve as Jazz did something with it. As the motor ground to a start, Bluestreak realized that he was impaled by a fucking machine. It took just one thrust for Bluestreak to understand why there was such a large crossbar. As the machine moved the crossbar would push up against him, causing his needle-pierced doorwings to move.
Bluestreak panted in anticipation.
Mirage swallowed down his first screams as the machine fucked into Bluestreak, slow and steady. The ridges on the spike set off a ripple of pain as it moved out and in. The crossbar then hit the back of Bluestreak’s thighs, pushing the helpless slave forward. The needles in his doorwings caused warm agony to bloom across his back as his doorwings swayed, while the false valve milking his spike provided a counterpoint of moist, tight, pleasure.
Bluestreak clawed at the legs of the bench in an impotent attempt to do something.
He needed to move.
It was too much.
It wasn’t enough.
The many sensations Bluestreak was subjected to mixed themselves into a pleasure-pain-pleasure that rippled across his sensor net.
Everything hurt while at the same time everything was filled with utmost pleasure.
Bluestreak was buffeted by wave upon unending wave.
He couldn’t beg for help.
A ping came in the middle of everything, and Bluestreak sobbed as his systems reacted automatically. He didn’t want it to end.
It didn’t.
Bluestreak screamed his next overload into Mirage’s supporting hands. He was thrashing too much for the other mech to continue kissing him. Instead Mirage held Bluestreak’s heated face in his cool hands as the pinned mech convulsed through overload after overload. Still, Bluestreak didn’t want to stop.
Bluestreak’s systems had been designed for this. When he had requested his upgrades, extra capacitors and charge banks had been included. He was designed for endurance in the berth and a masochist by inclination. His master was determined to put him through his paces.
Eventually, all things must end, however.
Mirage looked up, giving his master a significant look.
Jazz palmed the controls of the fucking machine, bringing it slowly to a halt.
Bluestreak tried to say something, too fuck-dazed to realize he wasn’t supposed to talk, but also too fuck-dazed to say anything remotely coherent.
Prowl appeared next to Bluestreak, uncovering a hardline port so that he could connect to the incoherent mech and check to make sure that everything was okay.
Bluestreak jerked as Jazz pulled the false spike out, sparking a final cascade of pleasured pain.
The sound that came out of Bluestreak as Jazz deflated the barbed spike was an unearthly wail. Sensors that had become accustomed to constantly firing in pain and pleasure were not being stimulated anymore, and the juxtaposition was jarring. In some ways, the end of the pain was more disconcerting than the pain had been.
Through it all, Mirage cradled Bluestreak’s head, petting his fellow slave gently and anchoring him to the present moment.
Prowl disconnected, apparently satisfied by whatever he had seen in Bluestreak’s code.
Bluestreak slowly relaxed as the contractions of the false valve came to a stop, becoming no more than a warm, loose hole gently holding his spike.
Jazz leaned over Bluestreak’s back, fingers flicking one of the needles still embedded in his slave’s doorwings.
Bluestreak roused at the sharp pinch. Compared to the total agonizing ecstasy he had been trapped in for what felt like ages, the slight pain barely registered.
“Just a little bit more,” Jazz crooned, rubbing his engorged spike against Bluestreak’s aft.
His normally fuck-hungry slave didn’t even have the strength to present himself for his master’s use. But that didn’t matter. Jazz plunged his spike into Bluestreak’s abused rear valve, hilting himself in one stroke.
Bluestreak grunted as if he’d been punched. It didn’t actually hurt that much, despite how Jazz’s spike dragged across the abused and abraded lining. His master used him for his own pleasure, chasing his own overload regardless of Bluestreak’s pleasure or lack thereof. The thought made him feel warm and hazy. His master found him useful.
Jazz’s transfluid was a welcome balm against the irritated lining of Bluestreak’s valve. It was, in its own way, a blessing from his master that Bluestreak treasured.
Mirage leaned down and murmured “you can pass out now.” Permission granted, Bluestreak did just that.
***
Bluestreak woke up some time later, cuddled up between Jazz and Mirage in Jazz’s berth. Both mechs quickly subspaced datapads and turned their attention to Bluestreak.
The chains Jazz used on Bluestreak when he slept over were not in use.
Bluestreak stretched as Mirage scooted down to lay behind him. Mirage threw one arm over the recovering mech to hold him still.
Bluestreak’s doorwings were pleasantly numb with what were probably surgical-grade pain blockers, as were his valves. He twitched at that. He wanted to feel the residual burn, but apparently in this case his master had decided otherwise. Bluestreak was also clean from tip to toe, the unmistakable feel and scent of Mirage’s high-end polish pointing to the likely culprit.
“That. Was. Awesome.” Bluestreak slurred as his vocalizer warmed up. “I mean, the setup and the staging was perfect.” His arm twitched as if he was going to emphasize his point, only to be stopped by Mirage’s hold. “The brazier of branding irons in the corner was inspired. I wish you could have used them on me.” The last statement was said with a note of pure longing.
“Maybe some other time,” Jazz interrupted Bluestreak, knowing that it was the only way to get a word in once the mech got going. He popped an energon candy in Bluestreak’s open mouth, temporarily silencing him. “How does your rear valve feel?”
Bluestreak hummed while he chewed on the candy. Mirage’s hands moved from restraining him to gently massaging his wings, and he was happy. Bluestreak rubbed his thighs together, twisting his pelvis so that he could test out how everything felt at different angles.
“Numb,” Bluestreak sounded disappointed. “Kinda like a hole back there, and not in a fun way. I can’t feel anything.” His voice was close to whining. “I want to feel the burn. I suffered for it, I deserve to enjoy it.”
Mirage huffed a short laugh.
Jazz smiled. “The numbing will wear off eventually. In the meantime, you need to be comfortable in order to recharge. Without recharge your self repair won’t be as effective,” he explained patiently.
Bluestreak made a face, and Jazz tapped him on the lips.
“Even I have to answer to Ratchet,” Jazz reminded him.
“You could just disappear me like you do ‘Con spies and then you can do anything you want to me and Ratchet wouldn't need to be involved,” Bluestreak suggested absently.
Jazz’s field went flat.
Bluestreak started to get concerned.
“You’re an Autobot now. I can’t just disappear you. There’s oversight in place to prevent stuff like that from happening. Prevent abuse among the ranks,” Jazz said seriously. “That includes you. Especially you, given my rank and your lack of.”
“Doesn’t stop it from happening,” Bluestreak responded pragmatically. Not that he knew for a fact, but he knew enough of the darker nature of mechs to be sure that it happened everywhere.
“No, it doesn’t stop it entirely,” Mirage responded, confirming Bluestreak’s hunch.
“If you notice anything, let me know. Or Prowl. Or Ratchet. Or really any of us,” Jazz ordered.
Bluestreak nodded.
“On to more pleasant topics.” Jazz leaned backwards to grab something off of the table next to the berth. “Spread ‘em and open your panel,” he said with a grin.
Bluestreak just looked at Jazz blankly, as if the other mech had slipped a chip. The thing Jazz was holding was slim and cylindrical, sure, but it didn’t look like any sex toy Bluestreak had ever seen. Also, Jazz’s field didn’t feel aroused, though mischief sparkled around the edges.
“I mean, sure,” Bluestreak responded, confused. Not that he’d let confusion get in the way of a thorough fucking, but normally there was a bit more warning and foreplay first.
“It’s a suppository,” Mirage explained. “It’s for your valve. To make sure that it heals correctly. It’s a mix of medical-grade nanites and other materials in a semi-solid suspension that will melt in the warmth of your body and activate.”
“That does make more sense,” Bluestreak responded, carefully rolling over on his back without rolling over on top of Mirage.
Jazz’s grin became wider. “So spread ‘em.”
Bluestreak did so. Inserting the suppository was weird, but not terrible. It just kinda sat there as he closed his panels. Sure enough, it soon melted, which was a strange feeling. It felt a bit like having an excessive amount of transfluid up there. His panel kept it in, though.
“You have to stay lying down in order for it to work the best,” Mirage explained as Jazz disposed of the applicator.
“Oh, no. I need to stay here and cuddle with you even longer,” Bluestreak deadpanned as he rolled to face Mirage.
Jazz snorted as he laid down behind Bluestreak. He calibrated the magnets in his palms and started massaging Bluestreak’s abused doorwings.
Bluestreak melted under Jazz’s hands, luxuriating in the attention while cuddling Mirage.
Bluestreak could feel Mirage practically vibrating with the need to say something, but something was holding him back. “Just say it,” Bluestreak eventually said.
Mirage made a noise too fancy to be a snort. “Laying down on a berth is not a proper way to do this.”
“I don’t know what this is, but I’m not moving, and you’re not moving,” Bluestreak stated as he held on to Mirage tighter. “Fancy pants noble.”
Mirage ignored Bluestreak’s grumbling. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice stiff with formal phrasing. “My failure to properly oversee your training and spot the warning signs led to your code being damaged. I have no excuse for my behavior, and I will submit to whatever corrective action you see fit.”
Bluestreak pulled back a little so that he could see Mirage’s face. Judging by his expression, the other mech was completely serious.
Jazz’s soothing touch on his doorwings was a strange counterpoint to the feelings going through him.
Mirage visibly braced himself as Bluestreak’s silence lengthened.
Suddenly Bluestreak grabbed Mirage and pulled the two of them closer, plating to plating from knee to chest. Bluestreak buried his face in Mirage’s neck. “Shut up.”
Mirage jolted a little in surprise. “I don’t think you understand—”
“Shut up,” Bluestreak interrupted. “I’m not stupid and I’m not naive. Of everybody, you should understand that.”
Jazz made a muffled sound of protest.
“And Jazz, because he’s not stupid,” Bluestreak conceded before turning his attention back to Mirage. “Just because I got a personality change courtesy of fucked up reprogramming doesn’t mean that I’ve completely forgotten everything that happened before then.”
Quick as a striking viper Bluestreak’s hand was around Mirage’s neck, razor sharp battle-grade claws a breath away from Mirage’s major energon line and neural linkages.
Jazz’s hands stilled on Bluestreak’s wings.
Bluestreak didn’t look back. He didn’t allow himself to be distracted as he leaned forward until his forehead was touching Mirage’s. Their ventilations mingled in the narrow space between them.
Suddenly, Bluestreak giggled. He pulled his hand away from Mirage’s neck, retracting his claws.
Pulling back, Bluestreak looked down to see the knife that Mirage had slipped between the plates of his abdomen, a bare breath away from a critical junction.
Mirage slowly pulled back and slid the knife back into its hiding place.
“Don’t forget that this,” Bluestreak motioned to himself, to the room, and to everything. “Is a preference. I’ve forgotten Barricade as much as you’ve forgotten Umbra.”
Mirage flinched at the reminder.
“I know you prefer being Mirage. I prefer being Bluestreak,” Bluestreak continued. “But that doesn’t mean that I’ve lost everything I was before, any more than you’ve lost who you were as Umbra. I can take care of myself, Mirage.”
“Current events notwithstanding,” Jazz remarked, moving his hands on Bluestreak’s wings again as if nothing had happened.
Bluestreak chirred in pleasure and relaxed, the hard edge of his field and body language melting into something softer. “Nobody saw that coming. It’s nobody’s fault. Now we know what happened and why, we can keep an eye out for similar things in the future.” Bluestreak looked at Mirage, lazily content. “Ratchet looked into your code once he’d diagnosed the problem, didn’t he?”
Mirage nodded.
“See? Problem solved. Nobody’s dead. Overall it went as well as could be expected,” Bluestreak summed up bluntly with a shrug. He looked at Mirage with narrowed eyes. “And it’s not your fault.”
Mirage took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before letting it out smoothly.
“I agree with the brat,” Jazz chimed in, breaking the steady pool of silence.
Mirage closed his eyes. “I will work on believing that,” he responded.
Mirage opened his eyes and looked at Bluestreak. “What about you?” Mirage changed the subject. “What is it that’s keeping your field tangled in knots?”
Bluestreak glared at Mirage.
Jazz laughed briefly. “He’s got you there,” he commented.
Bluestreak twitched his wings, pulling them briefly out from under Jazz’s massaging hands. He should have known better than to try to hide something from two seasoned special operations agents, especially one who’d known him a good portion of his life. They wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d answered.
“You’re not the broken one,” Bluestreak bit out reluctantly, looking sideways to avoid Mirage’s knowing gaze. “I am.”
Mirage hummed neutrally.
Bluestreak glared up at him. “That’s very helpful of you.” His growl was a low rumble.
Mirage shrugged. “I’m broken too. We all are. Even Jazz has rough edges you haven’t been exposed to yet,” he admitted.
Jazz made an annoyed sound, but Bluestreak could tell from Jazz’s freely shared field that the other mech didn’t mean anything by it.
Mirage smirked at Jazz over Bluestreak’s shoulder.
“You mean besides his rampant possessiveness and need for control,” Bluestreak snarked.
“Nobody gets very far in life, much less in Special Operations, without gathering more than a few cracks along the way,” Jazz replied without addressing Bluestreak’s comment. He stopped massaging Bluestreak and gripped the grey mech in a hold. It took Bluestreak a long moment before he realized that Jazz wasn’t trying to subdue him. He was hugging him. “We’re all just broken mechs trying to hold ourselves together day to day.”
“I’m glad,” Bluestreak murmured, sinking into Jazz’s comforting embrace. “That I’m here with you.” He looked up at Mirage. “Both of you.”
“Good, because it’s nap time and if the two of you are staying, you know the drill,” Jazz replied in an upbeat tone.
Mirage gave Bluestreak a knowing look. Reaching over he took the other mech in a warm embrace.
Jazz’s fingers were deft as he secured the collars and chains around the two mech’s necks.
“Good night, everybody,” he declared, before the lights in the room dimmed to recharge level. Even so, Bluestreak could tell by the other’s ventilations that it took a while for all to recharge. But they all did eventually.