Chapter Text
Cyclonus was unsettled.
Granted this was not an uncommon feeling for him to experience. Cyclonus was born into an uncertain world, frame and spark shaped by a being of chaos and destruction, he had sworn his fealty to a leader who would just as soon shoot him as look at him, instability came with the territory.
Yet ever since Lord Galvatron returned one cycle smelling of lubricant and ozone and in a towering rage that put many of his earlier tantrums to shame, things had been…different.
It was not the evidence of interfacing that disturbed Cyclonus. It was his lord’s right to take his pleasure how and when he pleased and it was not Cyclonus’s prerogative to interfere. No, rather it was the changes to Lord Galvatron himself that unsettled Cyclonus, the refusal to speak except to rage at his soldiers or give short, terse commands, the brooding silences which had grown longer than they ever were, the worsening nightmares, and, most alarming, the subtle edge of true distress in Galvatron’s field when he permitted Cyclonus close enough to touch.
And then there was the incident when his lord last took him to berth.
Cyclonus had retained no knowledge of any proclivities or prowess the former components of his frame might have possessed, but he was created foremost to serve Lord Galvatron in all ways, and it was no great trial to submit and bare himself the first time Galvatron had seized him among the smoking ruins of a battlefield and thrown him to the ground. It had been messy and brutal and inelegant and both of them had suffered damage to their interfacing hardware, but it was also one of Cyclonus’s most cherished memories.
And Lord Galvatron had learned…mostly. They no longer required medical attention except on very special occasions, or when Galvatron became overly enthusiastic, something which was a secret relief to Cyclonus. He feared no pain that he might experience in his lord’s name, but it was difficult enough as it was to cajole Galvatron into accepting medical care without adding additional injuries.
Still, Galvatron was nothing if not to the point, and the preamble to their encounters rarely consisted of more than brief, enthusiastic, and ferocious kissing—which perhaps could be better termed biting—or skipping the lead up all together and tossing Cyclonus to the ground and riding him until Cyclonus blew a relay trying to hold back his overload.
So it had come as a bit of a surprise when Galvatron had pulled back from his biting attentions to Cyclonus’s horns, given Cyclonus a strange and searching look, and said “Your mouth on me. Now.”
Cyclonus was already on his knees, grasping at Galvatron’s thighs, before his processor caught up to his frame and he realized he actually had no idea what he was doing. To his utter shame, he’d spent a few moments fumbling about, blinking at Galvatron’s valve as though he’d never seen it before. Where should he begin? The anterior node was an obvious choice, but what else? His processor had raced and Galvatron had given the back of his helm an impatient tug.
Taking desperate cues from the data from their prior encounters, Cyclonus had gone for rough and persistent, working the anterior node with his glossa until Lord Galvatron had made a growling noise of exasperation and shoved Cyclonus over on his back and mounted him and Cyclonus had nearly died of shame.
Lord Galvatron had not reprimanded him for his incompetence, but neither had he suggested Cyclonus engage in such an act again, something which cut far more deeply. And so Cyclonus perched upon a crumbling cliff on the planet where they had stopped to rest, commlink tuned for a message from his lord, and brooded over his inadequacies.
Galvatron had never complained about his performance before, but something had clearly shifted the night of his lord’s mysterious encounter. And regardless of the reason, if Galvatron was no longer satisfied with Cyclonus’s current abilities, it was his sworn duty to improve himself.
The real question was, how? He doubted Galvatron would have the patience to endure Cyclonus’s further, fumbling attempts and while he longed for his lord to simply take a firm hand and direct him, Galvatron had seemed strangely reticent to do so. Perhaps it had to do with drawing attention to the differences between Galvatron’s interfacing hardware and his own, but considering his lord’s current mood, Cyclonus suspected an inquiry in that direction might incur part removal. There was always Scourge—Cyclonus had never considered taking him to berth but Galvatron had given no command indicating he was forbidden from doing so—but Scourge was as poorly versed in interfacing techniques as was Cyclonus himself. No, the key to Cyclonus’s problem had to lie somewhere with the mechanism that had captured his lord’s attention. And considering those that had done so comprised a very, very short list…
Cyclonus experienced a deep feeling of foreboding.
Statistically speaking, he was probably looking for an Autobot Prime.
It took several delicate and probing inquiries for Cyclonus to obtain the information he desired, plus one awkward and stilted communication with Ultra Magnus, using a comlink code that both of them would swear under pain of torture that they did not possess. Still, all queries came back with the same, resounding answer.
Lord Galvatron had not in fact gone off and fragged Rodimus Prime.
This…complicated things, considerably. Not least because the alternative was located deep in enemy territory and more likely to shoot first and ask questions later. Still, what must be done must be done.
This was how Cyclonus found himself in Autobot City, in front of Optimus Prime’s berth, with a blaster pointed at his face.
He had to give the Autobot some credit; he’d gotten the blaster trained on him before Cyclonus had made it halfway through the window.
“It is the middle of the night,” said Optimus, flat. “What are you doing inside my berthroom?”
“You did something,” said Cyclonus. He’d meant for it come out strong, accusing, but it sounded more than a little petulant to his audio sensors.
Optimus raised an orbital ridge. “I have lived a very full life,” he said. The barrel of the blaster did not waver. “I have done many things. Perhaps you could be a bit more specific?”
“To Lord Galvatron.”
The Prime twitched. Cyclonus’s spark sank. Optimus’s jaw worked behind his battlemask. “I did not realize,” he said, slow. He cautiously lowered the blaster to rest in his lap, though Cyclonus noted he kept his finger on the trigger. “I believe I may owe you an apology?”
“It is Lord Galvatron’s business whom he wishes to…share himself with,” said Cyclonus stiffly. “That is not the issue.”
Optimus gave Cyclonus a keen look that indicated he did not quite believe him. “Then what is?”
“Lord Galvatron has…” He could barely bring himself to speak his shame aloud. He steadied himself. “Lord Galvatron returned from your…” He squirmed in discomfort. “My skills in the berth are no longer sufficient to satisfy Lord Galvatron. I wish for you to teach me.”
Optimus’s optics widened, “What?”
“I require instruction on—”
“No, no I understand that,” said Optimus. “Firstly, I do not think that is a good idea. Second…explain to me exactly what has given you the impression that Galvatron is…unsatisfied with you?”
Cyclonus fixed his optics somewhere to Optimus’s left. “Lord Galvatron requested that I pleasure him with my mouth. I failed. He has not asked further and seems rather…restless. Thus, I require instruction.”
Optimus’s orbital ridges rose so high they nearly brushed the edge of his helm. “Wait, how is it you could fail at something like that?”
Cyclonus refused to answer.
Optimus sighed, “Explain to me what you did.”
“I used my mouth to—”
Optimus rested his free hand on his nasal ridge and looked pained, “Be specific.”
“I applied my glossa strenuously to Lord Galvatron’s main exterior node with the intention to cause overload.”
Optimus cocked his head at him, “Is that all?”
“It seemed the most efficient way to fulfill Lord Galvatron’s request.”
“Efficient—” Optimus looked flummoxed. “This technique has worked on your previous partners?”
Cyclonus twitched. “I serve only Lord Galvatron,” he said, stubbornly looking at the floor.
“Vector Sigma,” said Optimus, under his breath. “Haven’t you ever touched your own valve?”
“I serve only Lord Galvatron,” said Cyclonus, rather than answer.
“Then “Lord” Galvatron should have demonstrated his preferences himself,” muttered Optimus, looking exasperated. “Valve nodes are quite a bit more sensitive, hazards of the delicacy of the equipment, to help keep a receptive mechanism from injury. You will occasionally find a partner who will enjoy the sort of…strenuous, single-minded technique you are describing, but for the most part, if you do something like that without warming your partner up it can be quite uncomfortable.”
“Lord Galvatron does not fear pain.”
“Not pain, precisely, just discomfort, dissatisfaction. Trust me, I am…rather aware of where Galvatron is coming from in that regard.”
“What do you mean by warming up?”
Optimus considered for a moment before patting the side of the narrow berth with his free hand, “Sit down and I will show you.”
Cyclonus recoiled, “No.”
Optimus looked amused. “I assure you I am not going to do what you are thinking. Sit down on the berth and give me your hand.” He hesitated a moment before setting the blaster down beside him and withdrawing his battlemask. “I promise your honor will remain quite intact.”
Cyclonus wavered, but he was quite curious. Clearly something about this mechanism had drawn Lord Galvatron to him—he shied away from the thought that it was related to Galvatron’s nightmares, the distant, haunted look Cyclonus sometimes saw in his optics—and if Cyclonus could capture even a fraction of that fascination, it was worth any price.
Cyclonus sat, gingerly on the edge of the berth. It was a tight fit. From this proximity he could feel warmth of Optimus’s engines, the flux of his field. Cyclonus extended a hand.
Optimus took it, gently and brought it up towards his face. He rubbed his thumb across Cyclonus’s knuckles, soothing, before tracing down each of the first two fingers in turn. “Here, imagine that these are the edges of a valve. You simply—” He lowered his mouth and kissed Cyclonus’s fingers before licking up each of them, pressing the flat of his glossa against them. Cyclonus jumped and forced himself still.
“Do not go right for the main node,” Optimus said, in between long, slow licks. “Work your way towards it, use the whole of your glossa.” He flicked his glossa against one of Clyclonus’s knuckles and Cyclonus bit his own glossa to keep himself from gasping. “Stimulate it, then back off before you go in again. Go slowly.”
To his shock and embarrassment, Cyclonus felt his own valve start to lubricate. This was wrong, disastrous, but he could imagine all too well how such attentions would feel on a valve, on his valve. “Lord Galvatron does not prefer slow,” he managed, trying not to squirm, struggling to keep his mind focused on his goal.
Optimus snorted softly. “I think I got a pretty good grasp of what he enjoyed,” he said, tone a touch sardonic and it should have stung but all Cyclonus could imagine was the two of them together, Optimus’s mouth on Galvatron’s valve, Galvatron wild and shaking with pleasure and oh it was blasphemous but his array ached at the thought, valve tightening and spike struggling to pressurize. Optimus rubbed his nasal ridge against Cyclonus’s knuckles, smearing the lubricant left behind by his glossa. “If he desires more active participation, give him something to press against.”
“I see,” said Cyclonus, trying not to sound as strangled as he felt.
“It is not as easy to stimulate a partner this way as it is by spiking them,” said Optimus. “You have to manipulate the current without forming a complete circuit. But be persistent, ramp his charge up and—” He pushed his glossa between Cyclonus’s fingers, the slick tip brushing against the palm and Cyclonus clamped his thighs tight together. Optimus thrust his glossa a few times in crude mimicry of penetration before withdrawing and looking up at Cyclonus. “You can cause some spectacular overloads.”
Cyclonus did not know quite what to say. His core pulsed with heat, his fans whirred and his valve clenched and ached with the unfamiliar desire to have something in him. “Thank you,” he said finally, shunting aside all the confused, disturbing thoughts whirling through his processor. His voice sounded hoarse to his audio sensors.
Optimus smiled at him, a little sadly, the flicker of a shadow in his optics, the same haunted distance that Cyclonus sometimes saw in Galvatron. “I wish you the very best.”
Cyclonus returned to Galvatron’s side, hidden beneath the overhang of the leeward face of a cliff, still buzzing with charge, and settled down beside him, close enough to read the flux of his lord’s field but distant enough to keep from startling him awake. Galvatron did rouse briefly, optics slitting open before he turned over and presented his back to Cyclonus. He’d no doubt read the arousal in Cyclonus’s field, but he was clearly in no mood to indulge him. Cyclonus offlined his optics and tried to recharge.
It proved impossible. His charge cycled endlessly, an uncomfortable hum, in spite of his best efforts to ignore it. Beside him, Galvatron gave a grunt of annoyance and rolled towards Cyclonus, clamping his hand around Cyclonus’s shoulder and dragging him in closer. One of Galvatron’s shapely thighs hiked over Cyclonus’s pelvic span and his interface hatch snapped open.
“It is intolerable to rest with you like this,” Galvatron said, grumbling, optics still offline. “But I am not getting up.”
It would have been very easy, not to mention pleasurable, to give in to programmed response and mindlessly rut into Galvatron’s valve, but Cyclonus found himself hesitating. His entire being throbbed with the desire to serve, to pleasure, to give of himself, but for the first time, Cyclonus discovered that he wanted something specific, beyond simply obeying his lord’s commands. It was disconcerting, but he burned for it. He ran his thumb across the dried lubricant on his knuckles and swallowed hard.
“Mighty One,” he began, and reset his vocalizer. “Lord Galvatron…”
Galvatron grunted in irritation and pushed his pelvic array against Cyclonus’s. “Well? Get on with it.”
“I would…like to try again,” said Cyclonus, and then, gathering his courage. “Lord Galvatron, may I use my mouth on you?”
It sounded utterly ridiculous to his audio sensors, but Galvatron’s optics flashed online, startled. “What?”
Cyclonus rested a beseeching hand on Galvatron’s chestplate, “Please?” He did not wish to press if Galvatron did not desire it, but the thought of performing this act made him ache. Behind his interface hatch, his valve clenched and he felt a rush of lubricant.
Galvatron gave him an unreadable look, but at long last released Cyclonus and rolled onto his back, spreading his thighs open. “Very well,” he said, his tone discouragingly neutral, “but I am still not getting up.”
“Thank you, Lord Galvatron,” said Cyclonus, rolling over and pushing himself down to settle between Galvatron’s legs. Galvatron was not producing much lubricant, but Cyclonus took him at his word that he had permission, trying not to rush, tracing in the edges of the valve with his fingers before lowering his mouth to it.
Galvatron shifted underneath him, letting out a huff of breath. Cyclonus’s tank turned and he tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the memory of Optimus’s lesson, letting the deep rumble of remembered instructions guide him and reading Galvatron’s responses.
Galvatron’s breath quickened as Cyclonus worked his way upwards with long, slow licks, coming near to the sensitive nodes at the valve’s apex before backing off and returning. Galvatron’s field pulsed with impatience and Cyclonus thought he might chastise him, but instead Galvatron squirmed and relaxed, leaving himself open. Spark pulsing with unfamiliar excitement, Cyclonus licked across Galvatron’s main exterior node.
Galvatron’s thighs clamped tight around his helm and Cyclonus jerked in surprise before melting, rubbing his nasal ridge eagerly against Galvatron’s anterior node, feeling the lubricant smear across his face. Blind and half-deaf, sensory data overwhelmed by the taste and scent and feel of Galvatron, Cyclonus burrowed, avid, pushing his glossa into Galvatron’s valve and feeling Galvatron’s hands alight on the back of his helm, gripping at his horns to better control his movements.
Licking and sucking as best as he could manage while Galvatron bucked against his mouth, Cyclonus thought his spark might implode with incoherent joy. He could feel Galvatron’s valve begin to clench and spark against his glossa, pushed it in deep and felt his horns dent painfully under Galvatron’s fingers as Galvatron tripped into overload. Charge flashed across his glossa and lubricant gushed, spilling down his face and Cyclonus worked on, half-mad and desperate, grinding his spike—he could not remember when his hatch had opened—against the ground.
“Enough!” said Galvatron, wrenching him upwards, but there was no rancor in his voice or field, only fierce pleasure and amusement as he dragged Cyclonus into position and guided him inside. Cyclonus thrust, helpless against him, trying to speak, trying to beg forgiveness because he couldn’t stop himself—
Overload shook him, shorting out relays and leaving him gasping and weak, slumped over Galvatron’s chestplate. “Lord Galvatron,” he moaned.
Galvatron chuckled and patted Cyclonus’s shoulder. “That was well done,” he said, and his field pulsed with satisfaction and approval.
Cyclonus hid his face against Galvatron’s chestplate and smiled to himself, running his thumb across his knuckles absentmindedly, “Thank you, Lord Galvatron.”
Worth any price indeed.