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anon-e-miss · 3 months ago

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Inglorious

He had no idea how many mechanisms had fragged the mech. Jazz looked as the puddle of transfluids and lubricants at the mech’s peds and the way his aft gaped and his valve folds hung low and loose. It looked like everyone at the club had put the anonymous mech to good use and the dark-cycle was only half over. On the other side of the box, there was a hole big enough for mechanisms to stick their spikes in and Jazz wondered how many loads of cum the mech had swallowed as well. There were other gloryholes in the club but their was something about this one that seemed to have attracted the most attention. Walking over to the box, this was not even sloppy seconds, but tens or twenties but Jazz found he did not mind. He took hold of the mech’s big aft and sank his spike in his sloppy valve.

“Mm,” he heard the whisper of a moan as the mech in the box pushed back on his spike. Jazz groaned.

Despite having taken the spike of just about every club goer who had passed through this dark-cycle, the mech was not so loose that it was not a nice, wet frag for Jazz. Then again, he had quite a big spike. Usually, it took a lot of foreplay to get his partner ready. He had no mood for that this dark-cycle. Giving the mech’s aft a playful slap, Jazz gave him the full length of his spike and gave it to him hard. He could hear the mech gurgle as someone fed him their spike and he groaned. What a great slut, he took Jazz’s spike like a pro. Considering there was not even a tip jar, this mech was taking all this cock for free. It was wild. It was exciting. The slut did not even have a plug so Jazz took his time, fragging the mech’s gestational take before he overloaded deep in his belly. He groaned as he pulled out and a flood of transfluids and lubricants splattered at the slut’s peds. Polyhexian transfluids had a unique charge that repelled other frametype’s transfluids. The loads of dozens of mechansims covered the floor and Jazz got hard again. This time, he fragged the sweet slut’s loose aft. Jazz went home sated around close. When he looked back at the gloryhole, the mech was gone and Jazz hoped he had as good a night as Jazz had.

***

“Come on Smokescreen,” Prowl called. “We don’t want to miss our transport.”

“What’s are all of those!?” Smokescreen asked as he jogged up to his originator. He pointed at a collection of statues in the Hub.

“Those are the Knights of Cybertron,” Prowl replied. “Heroes of ancient Cybertron.”

“I’ve never seen their pictures before,” Smokescreen said, looking suspicious and inquisitive at the same time. It was a familiar look to his originator.

“Praxus has its own mythology,” Prowl replied.

“Mmm,” Smokescreen hummed. “I think knights sound like fun.”

“We’ll get you a book,” Prowl told him.

“Okay!”

Perhaps Prowl was spoiling him, as he had been accused of before but the happier Smokescreen was, the easier this move would be. They had left everything behind. Prowl had not made the decision to enlist in the Autobots impulsively. He had run it through his ATS a hundred times and discussed it with both his procreators at length. Ultimately, it had been his originator who had helped to solidify his decision. Camshaft had told him that Praxus was not truly Neutral and the mask made it vulnerable in all directions. With his procreators off world serving the Helix Lord’s interests off world for an undetermined amount of time, it had seemed like the best interest of his creation to pick a path and to see it through. Prowl had enlisted in the Autobots as a tactician and had accepted base housing to ensure the security of his creation, as best as he could in their unstable world.

“Will grandori and grandgeni be able to visit us?” Smokescreen asked.

“When they have leave to,” Prowl replied. “Travel between Praxus and Iacon is not banned or especially restricted. Otherwise, we would not be here ourselves.”

“That’s good,” Smokescreen said. “I miss them.”

“They miss you too,” Prowl told him, knowing it to be true. “They will make arrangements as soon as their deployment is over, I am sure of it.”

Passengers were loading on the transport when they approached. Prowl was pleased they had not been left behind. He had arranged for their baggage to be transported from the transport to the Convoy shuttle. Whether it actually had been, Prowl would not know until they reached the Autobase. It did not contain all their worldly possessions, most Prowl had arranged to be shipped. They could make do well enough with what had already arrived, namely their furniture. His first duty shift was not until the beginning of the next orn, until then, they could get settled, unpack and explore. By the time his shift started, Prowl was sure he would be halfway mad, desperate to put himself to work but Smokescreen had the unique ability to distract him from boredom. When you had a sparkling like Smokescreen, it was impossible to truly be bored.

“This is us,” Prowl announced and he and Smokescreen disembarked. Their luggage was deposited on the sidewalk. “Just like I said, there is a park just around the corner.”

“It looks okay,” Smokescreen declared, with the cheekiest of grins.

Thankfully, their berths and couches had arrived, along with the knickknacks Smokescreen had deemed important enough to bring with them. It was the furniture that mattered as Prowl knew the novelty of recharging in a berth designed for a different frametype wore out as soon as their doorwings started aching. He had already sent schematics to the school for the chair Smokescreen would need at his desk. He may well have been making a nuisance of himself already but Prowl thought it was important he made it clear to the school early on that he would advocate for his creation; it was a lesson his procreators had taught him by advocating for him when he had been young. They spent a few mega-cycles unpacking and exploring. The new work orn came far more quickly and far more suddenly than Prowl had expected it would. He brought Smokescreen to school and saw him to his new classroom before making his way to Tactics.

“We’ve seen the preliminaries of what you can do,” Delta Magnus declared. This was the Prime’s second in command. “I want to see what you can do first hand, however.”

Prowl found the simulations easy to navigate. The problems were not overly complex. They covered fuel shortages, power shortages, ambushes and open warfare. He made his choices with the needs of the many and the most valuable targets in processor and all without hesitation. As a rule, Prowl was not an emotive mech with his kin being the only mechanisms he relaxed that much around. Troops died in battle, it was unavoidable in war, but it was vital to limit these losses. A victory one could not hold was ultimately a defeat and this was his policy as he ran through all of his tests. If the SIC was impressed or disappointed, he did not show it. He waited for his assignment as Delta Magnus reviewed his results with other commanders.

“He’s ruthless,” Delta Magnus noted, not quiet enough to go unheard.

“He’s efficient,” said another. “He had a long career in the enforcers. He could be good with the ASF.”

“He’s restraint,” said another. “Put him with Special Operations. Primus knows they could use a shorter leash.”

“I can’t see that working,” the first said. “The glitches don’t like restraint.”

Prowl mentally bristled at the glyph. He sat quietly and waited. It would not please him to be have the first unnamed Autobot as his commander as he knew full well he would clash with anyone who used the idea of glitches as an insult. Many times in Prowl’s life he had been called a glitch, by teachers, by supervisors, by strangers and in every one of those times the mechanism used the term because they were incapable of understanding a divergent means of thinking and operating. Though Prowl had not directed any special operations in the enforcers, he did not need to. He was a tactician. He wrote strategies and analyzed data. There was no reason he would not be able to do so here.

“Autobot Punch,” Delta Magnus barked at the yellow and blue Polyhexian that stood in front of him. The one called Punch did not raise his red servos in salute but levelled the Convoy with a long look. “Autobot Prowl has been assigned to Special Operations as your new strat.”

“Ain’t heard o’ Ops havin’ a strat on staff,” Punch replied. He looked Prowl up and down. “If y’re lookin’ to add staff, a commandin’ officer is more in need.”

“You have a strat,” Delta Magnus said. “Since none of your lot have any sense.”

“Good-cycle, Autobot Punch,” Prowl greeted the mech as the SIC left.

“Good-cycle, Prowl,” Punch said. “Have ya been transferred from one of the other divisions?”

“No Sir,” Prowl replied. “I am newly enlisted. I moved to Iacon last orn with my creation.”

“Ya don’t gotta call me or anyone else in Ops sir,” Punch replied. “We ain’t sanctioned so we don’t got rank.”

“That seems... chaotic,” Prowl replied.

“It is,” Punch replied. “We make good use o’ it. Still... a strat might not be a bad thing. Do ya got any experience in Spec Ops?”

“No... Punch I was an enforcer,” Prowl replied.

“We might have some growin’ pains here,” Punch sighed.

“Perhaps I could assist whoever analyzes the data your operations uncover,” Prowl offered. “I was assigned to metaforensics. I am adept at analyzing data and uncovering what is not meant to be seen.”

“Mm,” Punch hummed. “Let’s you and me look at Jazz’s last report.”

#anon-e-miss writes #maccadams #valveplug #tf prowl #tf jazz #mechpreg #tf punch

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anon-e-miss · 1 month ago

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Storm's End

(I've been playing sims again now that my mods are behaving. Decided on a fresh mer play and this is what you get)

“Are ya sure this is the right place, Ori?” Jazz asked as they stepped offer the small ferry.

“Only one Damaxus,” Punch replied. “This ain’t what I expected.”

Lilleth sang their songs from the trees as oilgulls squawked overhead. Fishing boats lined the docks, the crews call out to each other. Mechanisms boat the fresh cyberfish right off the boats, despite the drizzle. There was a roar of laughter and then another. The mood was happy and light. It was nothing like the docks in Polyhex. Even when the sea was willing give up a net of cyberfish, no one but the desperate would dare eat anything dragged up from the murky, sewage filled waters. The sea around Damaxus was anything but murky and there was no stink of waste. As far as the optics could see, the ocean surrounding Damaxus was clear turquoise, and apparently brimming with life. It was nothing like the stories Punch had told, a smugglers haven, a wretched slum. Damaxus, to Jazz’s optics, looked like paradise.

“When were ya last here?” Ricochet asked. “Twenty vorns?”

“Even in twenty vorns,” Punch said. “A turn around like this... I’d call it a miracle if I believed in such things.”

“Auntie Dipole’s ‘round here somewhere?” Jazz asked.

“Mhm,” Punch replied. “Maybe she can explain all this. Port was so rough, Lockdown even gave up on it for Primus’ sake.”

They walked past Dipole twice before the spotted the wirey femme among the crowds of mechanisms going from boat to boat, selling their bounty. She hopped down from the bridge of a pretty yacht, surprising all three Polyhexians. Punch let out a happy whoop and hugged his old friend. Dipole looked like a strong breeze could blow her over but she always had. At the same time, she did not look worn but determined but bright and alive. She yacht she was serving as cook on was docked in Damaxus for repairs, having run into trouble with pirates. Jazz blanched at the thought of her near death but his auntie seemed unfazed. She had ordered the captain to sail for Damaxus, even though he had wanted to sail for Polyhex, to sail under the safety of her canons. The yacht’s owner had sided with Dipole and as they had raced into the seas near the island, a great squall had come up and all but blown them into port where the pirates had crashed into the rocks and been scuttled.

“When I saw the red sky with dawn, I knew we’d be safe,” Dipole declared. “Red sky against this light-cycle, that’s why all the boats have come. A storm is coming.”

“Storms always comes to Damaxus,” Punch replied.

“It’s different now,” Dipole replied. “No hurricane has reached land in a decavorn, at least. Not a boat that’s minded the skies had been lost.”

“Seems too good to be true,” Punch declared, frowning.

“Sure, but I’m not going to turn up my olfactory ridge to a gift from the gods,” Dipole replied.

“Ya know a place where we can stay for a few ‘cycles while we get our bearings?” Jazz asked.

“Oh sure, there’s the inn,” Dipole said.

“Damaxus has an inn?” Punch asked, sounding dubious.

“Lovely Praxian family runs it,” Dipole explained. “They’ve got a little pub too. There’s no ordering anything, you eat whatever they have mind to serve that cycle. It’s always good.”

“Where’s the inn?” Jazz asked.

“Lockdown’s old perch,” Dipole replied. “At some point they bought the land and built their place right up from the beach. Its a pretty little place.”

“Surprised he ain’t come to take it back,” Jazz said.

“Lockdown hasn’t had much luck with Damaxus since the sea changed her spark,” Dipole replied. “If any of his ilk had given them trouble, I haven’t heard. I did hear Swerve got caught snooping in their wine cellar. Had him running scared, whatever they did.”

“H’uh,” Jazz murmured.

“H’uh indeed,” Punch replied.

“Oh, I see Tripwire, that’s their grandbitty, he’ll know if they have rooms,” Dipole exclaimed and she waved to a first tier youngling who was walking down the dock with a basket full of fish. “Tripwire! Overhear, Dearspark.”

“Hello Ms Dipole,” Tripwire greeted the femme with a dip of his doorwings. Though he had the telltale doorwings of a Praxian, his other features were distinctly Polyhexian, namely his audial horns and the shape of his mouth. He dipped his doorwings to Jazz and his kin. “Hello, Sirs.��

“Tripwire, do you by chance know if there are rooms in the inn available?” Dipole asked. “My friends have come from away.”

“Oh yes,” Tripwire said. “Two or three. It’s good you’ve come before the storm.”

“We got the last ferry o’ the orn,” Jazz declared. “Now we know why it’s the last.”

“You’ll be save on the island,” Tripwire assured them. “The rain’s going to pick up any klik, follow me to the inn.”

“I can carry that basket for ya,” Ricochet offered, miraculously coming out of his ennui for a moment.

“Thank you, Sir,” Tripwire said. “Grandgeni sent me to get more cyberfish. Lots of sailors in from the wet looking for a hot meal, even if they aren’t staying at the inn.”

“We ain’t sailors but I think he’s gonna have three more plates to fill,” Jazz declared.

“That’s okay,” Tripwire said. “We always have enough.”

“Fraggin’ skiff...” a sailor cursed. The mechling turned to look and the grizzled seafarer looked aghast.

“Language,” Tripwire scolded. The mech’s shipmates roared with laughter.

They walked on. Tripwire’s manners were formal. Sure, Damaxus was not turning out to be the dilapidated slums Ori remembered, it was still a fishing port and the mechling’s manners seemed a little out of place. Yet, the mechanisms working the boats seemed to enjoy him. His accent sounded Praxian to Jazz’s audio horns though he had encountered few of his frametype. Apart from the small clues in his appearance, there was no suggestion of Polyhexian heritage in his accent or formal manners. Perhaps his family had made their lives as sailors before settling on Damaxus, as much as Praxians were noted to keep to their own, Polyhexian spread far and wide in search of work and shelter. The already tough living condition of the Wastes had only been worsened by vorns’ long droughts and Straxus’ greed and corruption. Ori had not been expecting paradise in Damaxus, and clearly it was tripping him up but they could work with this. There were lots of boats going to and fro, what would one more be to the islanders?

“Grandori, do we still have rooms?” Tripwire dipped his doorwings as he greeted the mech cover the desk. “Ms Dipole’s friends came to visit.”

“We have two,” the elder Praxian replied. “One small private room and one with two berths.”

“We’ll take’em,” Jazz replied, offering the innkeeper shanix to pay for the rooms. “Ori’ll have the private one, Rico ‘n me’ll share the double.”

“Please enter your designations on the register,” the innkeeper said. “Tripwire, take the fish to your grandgenitor and then you are free to do as you will.”

“Okay, Grandori,” Tripwire replied. “Thank you, Sir for carrying the basket for me. Have a good stay, Sirs.”

“Great mechling,” Jazz said.

“He is,” the innkeeper replied. “Jazz, Ricochet and Punch. I am Camshaft, my conjunx managing the bar at the moment. Please allow me to show you to your rooms and then I will show you to the pub. I imagine you are hungry.”

“That’d be much appreciated,” Jazz replied. Thunder so loud it almost shook the inn roared over helm, the innkeeper did not flinch, his guests did.

“The inn has generators,” Camshaft assured them. “Our power has never gone out. Though Downshift prefers to serve a fresh catch, we have fuel stores enough to keep everyone well fuelled for a stellar-cycle.”

“Wow,” Ricochet said. “Ori could appreciate that sorta preparation.”

“I can,” Punch agreed.

“This way,” Camshaft guided them out into the rain. Their rooms were in an outbuilding, Ori’s on the bottom and Jazz and Ricochet’s on the top. A sitting room with a piano occupied part of the bottom floor. “If you need anything, at any joor, please ring the bell and one of us will be of assistance.”

“We won’t be any trouble,” Jazz assured him. Punch nodded.

The innkeeper left them to settle in. There was a set of washracks to share between the three of them, which was better than most of the inns they had found themselves in over the vorns, certainly better than the caves. They had little to unpack, all three of them kept their arms close at servo in their subspaces. They might have been planning to blend into the detritus to get their work done but Jazz could not complain. Their rooms were clean, comfortable and warm. It was a far better way to spend a dark-cycle or two as they made a new plan. Thunder boomed again and Jazz appreciated the room over his helm that much more. No one would hear them scheme, in any case, not with their rooms being in their outbuilding and the storm crashing outside.

“It could be worse,” Jazz insisted. “It’s a whole aft island. We can find a spot to to make our base ‘n go from there.”

“Mecha might snoop,” Punch countered.

“The scum that used to be here woulda too,” Jazz countered. “If only to see if our take was worth stealin’.”

“Mm,” Punch hummed with discontent.

“Rico?” Jazz asked his brother. Two helms were better than one against Punch.

“What?” Ricochet asked.

“Do ya got... any thoughts... bout anythin’?” Jazz asked, frustrated with his twin’s disinterest.

“No,” Ricochet replied, looking out into the storm. Jazz and Punch both stared at him a moment... No?

“Shoulda left ya wit yer genitors,” Punch crumbled. “Get yer helm in the game, Ricochet.”

“I guess we should eat,” Ricochet declared.

It might have been a mistake to bring Ricochet along. He had not been the same since he had tangled with Lockdown off the coast of Simfur. Though he had come out alive and maybe even the victor of the match, it had seemed to Jazz like the winds had been sucked from Ricochet and he had been living and working mostly on autopilot. He had not wanted to go back out to sea and maybe this was their punishment for strong arming him into coming. It had been Geni’s idea. Rumbler insisting that what Ricochet needed to find was out here, somewhere, where he had lost it. What that was, Geni had shrugged when Jazz had asked. His spark, his will, his drive, all Rumbler had been certain of was that Lockdown was to blame for Ricochet’s current state. If Jazz only knew what Lockdown had done, Jazz might have switched things up and gone after the bounty hunter to even the score. Although, it was Ricochet who had Lockdown’s servo in a jar in his berthroom, and not Lockdown.

“What’ll it be?” Downshift asked. The innkeeper’s conjunx looked like he could play bouncer if their business ever needed one. He had small ridges on his helm that could have be audio horns. His facial features were not quite classically Praxian, like his conjunx. Perhaps Tripwire had picked up some recessive code.”

“Three soups of the ‘cycle,” Jazz said. The pub was packed. Sailors and fishermecha say sea shanties off key. “Uh... things ever get outta servo?”

“They know better,” Downshift replied. “Which means their friends do and they keep themselves in line. No one wants me, or Primus forbid, Cam, breaking up a fight. They’d never live it down. I’d see it.”

What did that mean? Jazz wondered. He would have to talk to Swerve and see what exactly went on when he had that run in with the innkeepers. Before they set up roots here, they needed to know all the players. If the innkeepers had replaced Lockdown as unoffical warlords of Damaxus, they need to choose a different place to serve as their base. Ratchet needed supplies. His patients needed supplies. The Deadend needed fuel, really they needed everything. From Darkmount, Straxus’ clamp down was spreading. If this kept up, the uprising would be suffocated. Whatever Straxus claimed, he would not lift military law or end the special prosecutions when the last traces of “dissent” died off. The uprising as an organized whole had emerged from them.

Though the storm outside was still going strong, the thunder had moved on. With Ricochet and Ori both recharging, Jazz slipped out. He needed to calm his processor before he could hope to recharge. Jazz only wanted a walk, that was what he told himself, if he spotted anything that might be useful to their business in Damaxus, that would just be a welcome bonus. It was frigus in Damaxus but the storm brought rain and not snow. Like Polyhex, snow was a rarity if not a complete unknown to the island. It was cold enough but Jazz’s insulated armour could hold him through worse than this. He walked past a pretty pond set up in the courtyard of the inn. There was a light glowing from the shallow depths. A shrine to the spirits and a bath for the lilleth were on the edge. It was rather wild, something to Jazz added to its charms. He could smell the sea and the storm and he walked towards it. If Lockdown had made his base here, there might be smuggling coves nearby. Even if they were too close to the inn to be of use to them, there might be abandoned stores that could be.

“Oh, excuse me,” a voice that sounded like the sea itself spoke. Jazz looked up and saw a Praxian coming out of the trees, a nude Praxian.

“Oh no, excuse me,” Jazz said quickly. “I swear I wasn’t gawking or nothin’. I’m just out to clear my helm... I hope’m not trespassing.”

“The grounds are free for guests to visit,” the Praxian said. “I am Prowl.”

“Prowl, ‘m Jazz.”

“My procreators mentioned last klik guests from Polyhex,” Prowl declared. “You were fortunate to miss the storm. What brings you out in it now?”

“Just... restless,” Jazz replied. “I guess I interrupted... somethin’.”

“Oh, yes,” Prowl said. “It is tradition in Damaxus to shower in the rains. They are a blessing, after all. Would you like to join me?”

“Join you?”

They showered in the rain, but only for a moment. Prowl stepped close and invited Jazz to touch and he was not mech enough to deny the beauty. Almost ethereal, the curvy Praxian was something out of a fantasy. His exact frame shape was something Jazz had not seen. He had broad hips, thick thighs and a large, round aft. Under the cover of trees and greenery, Jazz crouched between them as he gave Prowl as taste. The Praxian moaned sweetly as Jazz lapped at his golden folds, cupping his heavy wells, teasing his stiff golden nozzles with his own servos. His waist was snatched, giving him a perfect hourglass all without armour. He could have made statues of Prima jealous. Jazz cupped the beauty’s wells as he filled him from behind, taking his time to ensure Prowl felt nothing but pleasure. Prowl’s moans were beautiful. Jazz twisted the Praxian’s nozzle as he rocked his hips against his delicious aft. He overloaded Prowl with his digits, glossa and spike before flooding the beauty’s belly with his spend.

“Recharge well, Jazz,” Prowl told him as they separated. Exhausted by his efforts, Jazz was sure he would.

#anon-e-miss writes #valveplug #maccadams #mechpreg #tf prowl #tf jazz #tf barricade #tf punch #tf ricochet #tf camshaft #tf downshift #tf tripwire #storm's end #mermay

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