Fandom: Transformers Bayverse-ish AU
Author: gatekat
Pairing: Jazz/Prowl (mostly)
Rating: NC-17
Codes: AU, Slavery, Tactile, Sticky, Noncon, Self Mutilation, Bondage, Violence, Mechpreg, graphic ref to past 'child' sexual abuse ... seriously, if you have a trigger, it's probably in here somewhere.
Summary: The young Prime is presented with a slave he doesn't know what to do with. Fortunately he has a long-standing place to put mecha that he doesn't want to think about.
Written for (tfanonkink .livejournal 11776 .html?thread=12048128#t12048128)
This'll be a long, dark one folks. You've been warned. Jazz ... is not a nice mech behind closed doors.
Disclaimer: The authors are only playing with their own twisted muses. Transformers belong to Hasbro. Fandom-side, check the inspirations page (gatekat-fics .livejournal 290 .html) We draw from a ton of amazing stories and authors you should read.
Notes: Prowl is my tri-wing design: alteride .deviantart art/Commission-Resonance-Prowl-254774764
Teek: to read another's EM field. It can provide information on identity, age, strength, health, emotional and mental state and other factors that influence the spark or energy running the frame. Term originated by (fanfiction u/120188/Dwimordene), though I don't hold strictly to her definition.
nanoklik = 1/8 second;
klik = 496 nanokliks/62 seconds;
breem = 8 kliks/8.27 minutes;
groon = 9 breem/1.24 hours;
joor = 6 groon/7.44 hours;
orn = 42 joor/13.02 days;
decaorn = 32 orns/1.14 years;
metacycle = 8 decaorn/9.22 years;
vorn = 9 metacycles/72 decaorn/83 years;
::text:: comm chatter
~text~ hardline/bond chatter
Dark Dreamer 1: Jazz's New Pet
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ =================== ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ironhide's bellows carried easily over the chaos of the warehouse raid, directing his soldiers and the Kaon Enforcers to their targets, as well as warning the criminals that this wasn't a law enforcement raid to be bribed out of or run from.
This was a raid under the order of the High Lord Prime Himself, deemed worthy of sending His personal guard to oversee it.
It was also a clear and open warning that any failure to comply was grounds to be shot. The Prime's Guard operated under battlefield law at all times and such was a well-known fact. Almost as well known as the visage, frame and voice of the Captain of the Guard, a mech who had served four Primes and seven Lord High Protectors in his long and prominent existence.
Even if one did not respect the young Prime, to disrespect His Guard was as good as walking into the smelter and the old Captain was more than happy to escort any who disrespected his master and charge.
The blaster fire and shouts quieted quickly. Prisoners were rounded up, cataloged by a lithe quicksilver minibot that was Ironhide's opposite in every way but a matching loyalty to the Prime.
More gradually the warehouse's contents were brought out, a cell's worth at a time, to be inspected by the medical staff from Iacon, interviewed by the more social of Jazz's crew, tagged with their city of origin and instructions for their care once they arrived there.
It was past dawn and the work all but complete, the criminals and enforcers long gone, when a commotion towards the back drew Ironhide's attention. Bored as he was, any hint of excitement had him moving towards it. A pair of his soldiers, mecha who he'd seen handle riots and mad-mecha, were struggling to pin one of the last slaves. The furiously thrashing creature was mid-sized, storm gray with splashes of red and gold, and had definite combat training. But what caught Ironhide's attention were the appendages on his back.
"Praxian?" he muttered, shocked to see one, especially one with such a fighting spirit. This slave ring didn't trade to the arenas. They avoided them. Still, training kicked in and he stalked over to grab the mech by both shoulders and held him out at arms length. "Calm down, we're here to free you."
The Praxian stilled slightly, and under the scuffs, dents and whip-marks Ironhide could see the transformation attempts of shoulder mounted weapons trying to deploy, only there was nothing to deploy anymore. Two wing panels marked a mecha that had been kindled free and at least of the middle class, possibly higher, but not a noble or royal. He also realized rather abruptly that even holding the mech tightly he couldn't teek him and the plating was cool to the touch.
Growled with a hiss, the Praxian's sensor wings clicking against Ironhide's arms lightly as he squirmed, trying to wriggle free. Ironhide considered the mech he held, the clawed and scuffed warriors that he'd tried to fight off, only to answer a comm from Jazz as he was deciding.
::Bring him here, 'Hide,:: the quicksilver mech said, as close to an order as he ever issued to the big warrior. ::Trust me. I can get him to still.::
::All right,:: Ironhide agreed, somewhat reluctantly. He turned to walk the squirming, hissing, unteekable mech to Jazz, knowing well how deceiving those smiling lip plates could be and how the black glass visor concealed intent.
The instant the slave's pedes hit the ground he dug his claws in and tried to lunge from Ironhide's grasp. A tiny flare of determination brought his field close enough to his plating for Ironhide to catch a faint teek of it. It was a futile effort, but it gave both mecha a clear view of his goal; the open door beyond Jazz.
Jazz cooed, a soft, melodic humming buzz and clicking that wove around him as he stepped forward, into the slave's personal space. To Ironhide's surprise, the Praxian stilled, even relaxed slightly, and didn't tense when Jazz spread his fingers across the Praxian's chest, over his spark.
::What did you do?:: Ironhide demanded across an encrypted comm.
::Talked to him in Praxian. Proper, undiluted formal ancient Praxian,:: Jazz responded, his tone a bit sad. ::I don't think he knows any other dialect.:: Before Ironhide could ask anything else, Jazz flared his field, focused through his hand and deep into the Praxian's frame.
A sharp keen and panic tore through the mech, but he stilled, panting through his chest vents and spent as Jazz withdrew his field, though not his hand.
::So ... when we talked to him, it was so much gibberish?:: Ironhide scowled at the trembling creature in his grip. ::What else did you learn?::
::He's young, 'Hide,:: Jazz's tone was definitely sad. ::Real young. Too young to have been kindled. He's also not registered.::
The big black mech jerked slightly at that.
"Yeah, he's an illegal spark," Jazz huffed before making a smooth movement along the slave's neck that dropped him into stasis. "This one's not going to Praxus. He's the property of the Prime now."
Optimus, the latest of those to inherit the title of Prime and the divine connection that came with it, sat in a throne of a chair and behind a desk that was as designed to impress as the office they were in. Behind him stood his Lord High Protector, a giant of a silver mech that had served as such for two Primes before this one. The entire display was intended to invoke awe and submission in those who entered the room, but the lithe silver minibot was not to be intimidated by prestige, wealth or power.
The purity of the spark that powered the young Prime's frame was intimately familiar to Jazz, and he feared nothing he knew.
The scowl on the Prime's normally gentle visage was almost enough to make him fidget, however.
"It is the law, my Prime," Megatron rumbled softly enough that only the Prime should have been able to hear. "An illegally sparked mech must be your property or there is no incentive to stop the practice."
The Prime allowed his field to speak of his opinion of that to his elder, a mech he relied on often to guide his leadership and understanding of the laws that were not always driven by the spark. The slender fingers of a priest templed in font of the Prime's features, he regarded one of the few mecha who was not overtly submissive towards him, nor treated him as a youngling.
It gave Jazz a very special place in the Prime's world and processors.
"It's true, Boss-bot," Jazz chirped. "The mech's not fit for society, I'm afraid. Even with intensive work he won't be for a long time."
"Ironhide said that you can communicate with him, that you calmed him," Prime rumbled. "How?"
"I'm probably the first person ta say anything he's understood in metacycles," Jazz shrugged. "He'd behave for you, and you know formal ancient Praxian."
The powerful convoy grade engine in the Prime's chassis rumbled in displeasure. "What am I to do with him? I do not have time to rehabilitate him."
"There are other things to do, my Prime," Megatron rumbled in his audial. "I've seen this mech. He cleans up quite attractively. I'm sure he will fall into our berth as willingly as any other commoner."
"All the more reason for him not to be near it," Optimus rumbled in reply, his field snapping a sharp rebuke at his High Lord Protector. He focused on Jazz. "You've taken in foundlings before."
Jazz cycled his visor, visibly startled by the statement. "Well, sure, when I'm going to take one into my crew."
"Is there any reason this one would do poorly in your crew?" Deep, warm blue optics bore into Jazz.
"Well, no, Boss-bot," Jazz admitted as he settled into the idea. "He's got the spunk to manage, once I socialize and train him."
"Then you will do so," the Prime instructed. "Do what you need to so he can become a productive member of society."
"Will do, Boss-bot," Jazz gave a flourish of a salute and bounded out of the room.
"Why so eager to be rid of him, my Prime?" Megatron's deep voice softened with genuine affection and loyalty it was impossible not to teek.
Prime x-vented deeply and leaned into the strong hand on his shoulder. "I have enough to tend to. You know I do not wish anger or slavery close to my recharge."
"Yes, you are very different that way, my Prime," Megatron lowered his helm to gently touch the Prime's, a touch far more intimate than they displayed in public. "Very different."
From the outside, Jazz's smile was almost perpetually cheery. His presence was welcomed anywhere, a boost to the mood and flare of any party. His favors in the berth were highly sought after and freely given. Much of Cybertron's elite and many lower down believed they knew Jazz. And they did, in a way. They knew the public Jazz. The Jazz that was not the conductor of Special Operations' shadow wars, a mech with nearly as much power as the Prime Himself.
In the security and safety of his wing of the Prime's Palace, or rather under it, in the sprawling complex that not even the High Lord Protector knew of, Jazz allowed his true smile to creep through and twist his cheerful features into a visage that bode ill for whoever it was directed at. It was still a pleased smile, but it was a look that had every being grateful it wasn't directed at them as he strolled by.
Only two creatures in this shadow empire did not fear him. His SIC, who was the mirror image of himself with a matte black finish where Jazz sported silver polished to a near chrome finish and a stern, grim look where Jazz wore a smile. With their matching frametypes, many believed that Jazz and Whiplash were twins and the black one was the evil one. It was a perception that neither dissuaded.
A datapad slid into Whiplash's hand, no doubt from the other entity that did not fear Jazz. His CMO.
"Temperance finished with him?" Jazz asked cordially, extending his hand for the datapad.
"Yes," Whiplash handed it over smoothly. "The meeting go well?"
"Better than I dared hope for," Jazz actually purred, deep and resonant in his pleasure. "Just the echo of that mech's field on me was enough to drive the Prime to be rid of him. I didn't even get the chance to offer. He actually ordered me to take care of him. Gave him to me in full, for Ops."
"I'm impressed," Whiplash gave his master a nod. "This one seems easier to manipulate than Sentinel."
"And far easier to control than Nova," Jazz agreed as he flicked the datapad on, waited for it to confirm his ID via his field and then scanned the contents. He saw what he expected to, a few things he didn't, but overall it was the picture of a very young sparked mecha perfect for indoctrination. That malicious, eager smile spread further.
"I'll ping you if Prime calls," Whiplash ruffled his armor.
"I'll ping you when I'm free again," Jazz agreed absently and walked onto his quarters, through the common room and into the berthroom, still studying the pad in his hand. The door slid open smoothly to a delightful sight.
The storm gray mech was on his knees, helm and shoulders bowed because arms were spread and bound there. Two panel sensor wings, the most elegant and distinctive feature, were settled loosely.
To Jazz, he was looking at a mecha who was well accustomed to the uncomfortable and submissive position and it hadn't put a dent in his fire. Whoever had created this mech had their hands full with him until the slavers had gotten him. Not even those much harsher methods had done much, though Jazz was willing to bet it had made him even more violent and reactionary. He double-checked that his linguistic file on the most ancient form of Praxian was fully loaded. It was a dialect only one shift away from ancient High Vosian and as much about frame as vocalizations, so the Praxian's ability to use it was rather limited by his bindings, but he'd be able to use enough with his wings unbound. It wasn't as if Jazz planned to ask much more than yes or no questions for tonight.
Jazz knelt in front of his new toy and brought the mech's face up with a finger under his chin. The beautiful creature growled at him, a sound more from his engine than vocalizer, bared his denta in threat and field pulled in too tightly to teek without forcefully invading the mech's frame as Jazz had done before.
"I know you have a mechanimal's vocalizer," Jazz spoke in the melodic, lilting dialect he didn't really have the frame to fully utilize. He noted with pleasure that it had much the same effect that it had before. The Praxian stilled, his growl muted, though that warning snarl was still in place. "Do you know enough Praxian to answer yes or no with your wings?"
Both wings flicked up, bringing the primary joint above the line of his crimson chevron, held there for a steady four nanokliks, then dropped back to neutral.
"Good," Jazz purred. "Are you hungry?"
Ice blue optics regarded him warily, but the wings lifted again, holding steady for the same four nanokliks and dropped once more.
Jazz pulled a cube of good quality midgrade from his subspace and felt as much as saw just how hungry his new pet was now that there was energon in range. The quiver was tiny, the flash in those icy optics brief, but they were there.
"Then drink," Jazz cooed gently as he lifted the cube to his pet's lips and tipped it slightly. Experience from both training mecha and caring for badly injured ones made the move an easy one, and he watched carefully. It mattered a great deal how much experience the recipient had. It didn't surprise Jazz in the least when his pet reacted as one familiar with how to drink from another's hand, even if he didn't approve of the situation.
With the cube half gone, Jazz resealed it and put it back in his subspace. "And now for twenty questions," he grinned at his pet, earning a dirty look and growl in reply. With a laugh Jazz flopped on his protoform-grade berth and relaxed. His optics on the chained mech across the room, he reviewed the questions he could ask, sorting them into categories and prioritizing them by the value of the information they were likely to provide.
"Were you sparked a slave?" Jazz began with something that it was reasonable for him to have guessed, and to ask.
Wings lifted in a yes, once more holding that precise timing of four nanokliks before dropping to rest.
Jazz nodded. "Do you have a designation?"
This time the Praxian seemed to startle, craning his neck to look at Jazz. His face remained impassive, but his sensor wings clicked lightly against his frame in confusion and distress. Jazz gave him time, watching and cataloging every tiny movement while the question was processed. Temperance indicated that he had reasonable processor power. Nothing on Jazz's level, but adequate for many functions and capable of being upgraded to an impressive level over time.
Slowly, sensor wings lowered and flattened to indicate a no.
"Well, we can not have that," Jazz huffed. "Do you have one you use when you think of yourself?"
Again there was a significant pause before those enticing wings dropped once more.
"Mmm, then I guess we will just have to go with something I think up," Jazz considered his pet for a long moment.
"Stormcloud," he pronounced a verdict. "Yes, that seems to suit you. Colors, ill tempered, violent, nearly uncontrollable, predictable only with great understanding. Yes, that will suit you nicely. What do you think?"
The young slave considered Jazz for a lingering time before lifting his wings in a hesitant agreement.
"Good," Jazz purred, delighted with how cooperative his new project was being. He had no doubt that would come to an end, but for now it was a good sign that there was enough of a processor in there to work with. "Now, Temperance indicates that you have several sub-standard systems beyond your vocalizer. Do you want those upgraded?"
Stormcloud froze, his sensor wings flared slightly in a marked reaction of uncomprehending surprise. Jazz allowed him time to process the words, their literal meaning and any implications the slave's processor could come up with. Slowly those wings lowered from surprise to neutral, then flicked in an awkward looking one up, one down posture that could either mean "don't care" or "uncertain", depending on how Jazz interpreted it. While it meant one or the other, Jazz wasn't quite good enough with the dialect's frame language to be sure.
"I suppose that will do," he grunted. "You will go in for surgery in the morning. At least I want more than yes or no answers from you."
That weird shrug happened again, one wing up and one down, only it was with a different tilt. It might mean something specific to another wing-frame, but Jazz could only work out that it was another neutral-ish response. He nodded anyway. As long as it wasn't "frag off" it was good enough for now. It was still cooperation, and cooperation deserved a reward.
"If I unchain you, will you remain on the berth until I tell you otherwise?" Jazz offered, patting the space next to him. He knew it was the finest berth padding in existence, something even nobles were proud to own, and he knew that it was apparent at a glance just how luxurious it was.
He was not expecting a mecha without interfacing protocols to have any reason to think it a trap, yet there was no doubt in Jazz's CPU that a trap, a very nasty one, was exactly what Stormcloud's sudden tension indicated he thought it was. It churned his tanks. Jazz could count on one hand the number of things that he was morally opposed to.
::'Lash, when we find out who commissioned him, put them on the short list,:: he growled over the comm.
::Right. Reason?:: The black mech replied with practiced ease to seemingly random demands.
::My new pet equates a berth to a nasty trap,:: he let the implications settle in his SIC's processor and caught the hateful snarl when they did.
::With pleasure,:: Whiplash growled before Jazz closed the line.
Jazz knew the priority of finding Stormcloud's origins just went up several levels from a slightly more than a passive search to a high priority active mission an agent would be assigned to. Quite likely Whiplash himself.
"I won't touch you like that," he promised, his tone softening. "Just lay next to me."
Ice blue optics continued to bore into him, judging, calculating, weighing risk, reward and choices.
Very, very cautiously, the sensor wings rose in confirmation, hung there for four nanokliks and dropped down to neutral once more.
"Good," Jazz brightened instantly and swung off the berth. With little concern for his safety, he knew he could drop this feisty mech easily, he walked up to Stormcloud and signaled the locks to open. He wasn't surprised by the sudden surge of motion that carried the noticeably larger mech to his pedes and two steps away from the chains.
Jazz watched in mild amusement that despite the motion, his pet seemed very confused to be standing, unchained, in the middle of the room.
"Go on, on the berth," Jazz motioned towards it, but carefully made no move to try and force, or even touch, the skittish and volatile mech. The more Stormcloud was willing to do because of an agreed-upon trade, the better. He'd learn that Jazz was good to his word on such things. Whether it was turbo-puppies or mecha, consistency and timing were the keys to training and Jazz respected that truth.
Ice blue optics stared at him for a long moment, then the sensor wings pulled in tight as Stormcloud made his way to the berth and climbed on it, shifting to the back by some former training. His sensor wings quivered as he turned around, still kneeling and half supported by his hands, to watch Jazz flop onto the plush, pliant surface that molded to every contour of a frame.
"Stay on the berth and there will be energon when I get up," Jazz told him before shutting down for a light recharge. He would have to be much more certain of this mech before he shut down to a level that prevented him from protecting himself.
A klik passed. Then a breem. Then two. Finally Stormcloud moved to lay down. Jazz could feel the tension in that frame without touching, but he let it be. He wouldn't ask his pet to relax. Only to stay. Obedience was all he wanted for the moment. Trust would come later, and with this one it would be hard won.
Prowl watched his new master power down for recharge, but his processors were spinning too fast to try to do the same himself. Master was a pretty mech for an outsider, he freely admitted it to himself. Shiny, gentle, generous ... and very confusing. That mirror finish would be a lot of work to maintain, but maybe if he did that well, Master would not demand more than he currently was in this berth.
It was a nice berth. Soft. Warm. Supportive. It was a place that Prowl was sure he could quickly come to enjoy.
That thought was almost enough to sent him scuttling to the floor, but he stopped himself with barely more than a twitch. Master had ordered him to stay. Master had been good to him. It was a bad idea to invite pain by disobeying when he was not sure that disobeying would be the less distressing choice. He more than half wished Master had other slaves in the room. It was an unspoken rule that the older slaves would teach the new ones what was expected, what Master's quirks were, how to avoid the worst of Master's temper and the best way to respond when it was unavoidable. Some masters liked whimpering and begging, others wanted silent acceptance, and one Prowl had heard of wanted his slaves to show arousal when punished. That one he had stopped trying to comprehend, even though he could never completely let go of picking at the strange idea.
With some effort he focused on replaying every nanoklik of memories and information he had on Master. It wasn't much, but he had to admit that this was far better than any other first orn with a master. Reluctantly, still uneasy, he laid on his back and bit back the deep moan that wanted to escape. This felt sinfully good. Anything this good must have a beating coming to pay for it, yet Master had ordered him.
So Prowl remained, slowly cycling down for badly needed recharge.
He couldn't even remember how long it had been since he'd had more than a few breems of uneasy recharge at a time. How long since a full defrag cycle? Had he ever managed it?
He couldn't remember that either.
How he booted up and when would tell him so much more about functioning under this master.