[G1] With Benefits - Part One
May. 27th, 2013 05:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: So camfield gave me this prompt from the kinkmeme and I think I missed the spirit of it, but I figure some people would enjoy reading it anyway. This NSFW piece here is part one. There are many, many more parts to come. Self-beta'ed.
Title: With Benefits
Universe: G1
Description: Optimus is about to have a very good day; he just doesn't know it yet.
Part One - Wake Up Call
Characters: OptimusxJazzxMIragexBumblebee
Warnings: foursome, light restraint, voyeurism, sticky
Optimus emerges from recharge to intense pleasure and warmth suffusing his systems in a pulsing wave. His optics online to find Jazz perched above him, his valve open and poised over Optimus' spike, dripping lubricant down his thighs and onto Optimus' array. He slowly sinks down, even as Optimus watches, valve encasing the Prime's spike in slick, tight heat until he bottoms out, the sensor-dense head of Optimus' spike nudging the innermost ceiling node of Jazz's valve.
“Morning, boss,” his third in command drawls with a wicked smirk and a roll of his hips that's probably illegal in several solar systems.
Optimus moans and bucks up into Jazz, wishing he could be more surprised. But it's hardly the first time he's woken up with his third in command straddling him. He tries to reach down, grab Jazz's hips to match their rhythms, but finds that he can't.
What...?
“Good morning, sir.”
Above him, Mirage leans over his helm, expression upside down but no less mild and amused. His smile is warm and teasing as he leans down, pressing an inverted kiss to Optimus' face mask.
“Morning,” Optimus rumbles, sliding his mask aside.
But Mirage's lips are already retreating, and Optimus can't see where until heat and moisture envelop one of his antenna. Optimus makes a sound that should probably be classified as a whimper, a shudder wracking his frame, doubled when Jazz circles his hips, valve calipers clutching at Optimus' spike in a rhythmic wave from base to tip.
They're trying to drive him crazy. That's all he can assume.
Until fingers tease the rim of his valve, tracing over and over the sensitive seam. His hips jerk, lubricant pooling behind the cover. Only it can't be Jazz circling him with deft touches, mapping the contours of the cover. Because Jazz's hands are too busy both working his own spike with determined fervor and playing with the metal lines of Optimus' grill.
“Who...?”
A soft laugh echoes in the room before Bumblebee's face appears to the left of Jazz's hips. “Morning, Optimus,” he says, fingers pressing lightly on his valve cover, pressing against metal softened by rising heat. “Going to open for me, sir?”
His panel snaps open before Optimus gives it a firm decision.
“Thought so,” Jazz says with a laugh and a squeeze of his valve.
Two blunt, minibot fingers push into Optimus' valve and he hitches a ventilation, lubricant seeping out, splashing onto the berth and Bumblebee's hand.
“Nngh,” he says, brought low by the pleasure.
Mirage's fingers squeeze his wrists, slim digits slipping between armor plates, caressing wires and cables beneath. His mouth slides down, over Optimus' antenna, drawing charge with his glossa.
“M-Mirage...?”
Jazz grins, visor brightening. “Oh, don't you worry about him, boss bot. He likes to watch.”
“Spies generally do,” Mirage remarks dryly.
Optimus' engine rumbles his approval, especially when Bumblebee adds a third and fourth finger, his smaller digits making for a fine stretch. Optimus opens his thighs wider, invitation extended, and gasps when Bumblebe's fingers trace circles on the sensory nodes at the aperture of his valve.
“He likes that, Bee,” Jazz comments, the slick sound of his hand on his spike filling the room. “I can feel it.” His grins turns positively wicked.
Bumblebee's fingers disappear and Optimus makes a noise of protest, until hands smooth down his thighs, raising prickles of charge. Metal slides against metals, warm as Bumblebee moves between his thighs, engine a soft purr. Optimus feels the blunt head of a spike nose at his valve, lubricant-wet tip tracing the rim.
“Do you mind if I...?”
“Please,” Optimus groans, helm pushing toward Mirage's lips, hips canting with invitation as Jazz pauses his eager dance to give Bumblebee room to maneuver.
He doesn't have to ask twice. He can feel Bumblebee between his legs, though he can't see the minibot, and then there's the sweet, slick glide of a spike into his valve, nodes sparking to life one after another.
Optimus shudders, hips jerking up and down, caught between two pleasures. All the more when Mirage continues his oral assault on Optimus' antenna, one and then the other, back and forth, charge spitting and hissing across them. Optimus' fingers draw in and out of fists, but Mirage is resting his entire weight, keeping him from lifting his arms.
“And now that we're all set,” Jazz says, bracing his hands on Optimus' abdominal plating, glossa flicking across his lips. “We can get this show on the road. Ready, Bee?”
“More than,” the scout breathes, his hands sliding down Optimus' thighs, dipping between the bare gaps in his leg plating, teasing the cables beneath.
“Got your back, boss,” Mirage purrs, lips sliding down, teasing Optimus' audial.
He groans, stripped of words, writhing beneath the weight of his Special Ops team. Pleasure is an inviting fire in his valve and he's desperate for them to do something, anything to ease the ache.
“Good,” Jazz says, rising up, Optimus' spike slipping from his valve with a dribble of lubricant that Optimus' optics track with a ridiculous intensity. Only the rounded head of his spike remains in that welcoming heat, twitching in anticipation of its full return. “All right, boys. Let's move.”
And they do, by Primus, they do.
Optimus whimpers, and yes, he's calling it now, as Jazz sinks down as Bumblebee sinks in, igniting all of the sensors in his valve and spike at once. And Mirage is no less busy, fingers and glossa making short work of every sensitive node on Optimus' helm.
His hips buck, pushing his spike into Jazz's valve, calipers cycling and clenching in irregular rhythm, drawing out the charge. His own valve squeezes down on Bumblebee's spike, enjoying the catch of the scout's blunt nubs, charge crackling between them.
“Primus,” Bumblebee moans. “Feels so good.”
Jazz's fingers rap a nonsense rhythm across Optimus' abdominal plating. “Boss has got the stuff,” he agrees, visor lit up with pleasure. His hips surge and sink, clutching at Optimus' spike with each roll of his pelvis.
Optimus' heels scrape the berth, legs splayed wide for Bumblebee between them, pushing relentlessly into his valve, sensor nodes firing burst after burst of pleasure. His spike is encased in a wet, clasping warmth, Jazz's hips performing an erotic dance that Optimus enjoys watching and feeling.
Lips cover his from above, Mirage's glossa flicking over his own, tasting faintly of those energon goodies the noble likes to nibble all the time. His denta nip Optimus' lips in tiny pricks of pleasure-pain and Optimus moans, hips working an unsteady rhythm, caught between Jazz's valve and Bumblebee's spike.
Optimus shudders, overload sweeping through his systems and sending charge dancing across his circuits. He jerks, Jazz bouncing on his spike with a little moan, as transfluid spurts into Jazz's valve.
“Optimus!” Bumblebee shouts and Optimus can't see the scout but he feels the wash of transfluid in his valve, warm and tingling over his excited nodes, dragging another, sharper overload from his systems.
He hears Jazz cry out from a distance, feels the restless cycling of his third in command's valve, the hot and eager press of Mirage's energy field, and the soft petting of Bumblebee's hands, but then a third overload strikes him hard and fast and Optimus' world flashes to dark.
Optimus reboots thirty minutes later, relaxed and sated, but clean and alone. He gives himself a moment to process, optics cycling, memory returning. His shift will begin soon, though it's a faint disappointment that none of his Autobots had lingered for a snuggle.
He rolls off the berth onto his pedes, rubbing a hand down his face, half-expecting that it was all just some wonderful recharge-induced dream. Until he spies the datapad on his berthside table.
He picks it up, a message flashing onscreen. Thanks for the show, it says, and it's signed Mirage. There's a vid-file attached and curiosity demands that he watch it.
Oh.
Not a dream. And he has the video to prove it.
***
a/n: So far, I'm anticipating at least eight more parts though I wouldn't be surprised if a couple more jumped out at me. I don't know how fast they will come out as I'm using this as a infrequent break from writing my bigbang fic, but I'm going to try my best.
Writing a foursome was an interesting challenge. Hope you enjoyed!
Title: With Benefits
Universe: G1
Description: Optimus is about to have a very good day; he just doesn't know it yet.
Part One - Wake Up Call
Characters: OptimusxJazzxMIragexBumblebee
Warnings: foursome, light restraint, voyeurism, sticky
Optimus emerges from recharge to intense pleasure and warmth suffusing his systems in a pulsing wave. His optics online to find Jazz perched above him, his valve open and poised over Optimus' spike, dripping lubricant down his thighs and onto Optimus' array. He slowly sinks down, even as Optimus watches, valve encasing the Prime's spike in slick, tight heat until he bottoms out, the sensor-dense head of Optimus' spike nudging the innermost ceiling node of Jazz's valve.
“Morning, boss,” his third in command drawls with a wicked smirk and a roll of his hips that's probably illegal in several solar systems.
Optimus moans and bucks up into Jazz, wishing he could be more surprised. But it's hardly the first time he's woken up with his third in command straddling him. He tries to reach down, grab Jazz's hips to match their rhythms, but finds that he can't.
What...?
“Good morning, sir.”
Above him, Mirage leans over his helm, expression upside down but no less mild and amused. His smile is warm and teasing as he leans down, pressing an inverted kiss to Optimus' face mask.
“Morning,” Optimus rumbles, sliding his mask aside.
But Mirage's lips are already retreating, and Optimus can't see where until heat and moisture envelop one of his antenna. Optimus makes a sound that should probably be classified as a whimper, a shudder wracking his frame, doubled when Jazz circles his hips, valve calipers clutching at Optimus' spike in a rhythmic wave from base to tip.
They're trying to drive him crazy. That's all he can assume.
Until fingers tease the rim of his valve, tracing over and over the sensitive seam. His hips jerk, lubricant pooling behind the cover. Only it can't be Jazz circling him with deft touches, mapping the contours of the cover. Because Jazz's hands are too busy both working his own spike with determined fervor and playing with the metal lines of Optimus' grill.
“Who...?”
A soft laugh echoes in the room before Bumblebee's face appears to the left of Jazz's hips. “Morning, Optimus,” he says, fingers pressing lightly on his valve cover, pressing against metal softened by rising heat. “Going to open for me, sir?”
His panel snaps open before Optimus gives it a firm decision.
“Thought so,” Jazz says with a laugh and a squeeze of his valve.
Two blunt, minibot fingers push into Optimus' valve and he hitches a ventilation, lubricant seeping out, splashing onto the berth and Bumblebee's hand.
“Nngh,” he says, brought low by the pleasure.
Mirage's fingers squeeze his wrists, slim digits slipping between armor plates, caressing wires and cables beneath. His mouth slides down, over Optimus' antenna, drawing charge with his glossa.
“M-Mirage...?”
Jazz grins, visor brightening. “Oh, don't you worry about him, boss bot. He likes to watch.”
“Spies generally do,” Mirage remarks dryly.
Optimus' engine rumbles his approval, especially when Bumblebee adds a third and fourth finger, his smaller digits making for a fine stretch. Optimus opens his thighs wider, invitation extended, and gasps when Bumblebe's fingers trace circles on the sensory nodes at the aperture of his valve.
“He likes that, Bee,” Jazz comments, the slick sound of his hand on his spike filling the room. “I can feel it.” His grins turns positively wicked.
Bumblebee's fingers disappear and Optimus makes a noise of protest, until hands smooth down his thighs, raising prickles of charge. Metal slides against metals, warm as Bumblebee moves between his thighs, engine a soft purr. Optimus feels the blunt head of a spike nose at his valve, lubricant-wet tip tracing the rim.
“Do you mind if I...?”
“Please,” Optimus groans, helm pushing toward Mirage's lips, hips canting with invitation as Jazz pauses his eager dance to give Bumblebee room to maneuver.
He doesn't have to ask twice. He can feel Bumblebee between his legs, though he can't see the minibot, and then there's the sweet, slick glide of a spike into his valve, nodes sparking to life one after another.
Optimus shudders, hips jerking up and down, caught between two pleasures. All the more when Mirage continues his oral assault on Optimus' antenna, one and then the other, back and forth, charge spitting and hissing across them. Optimus' fingers draw in and out of fists, but Mirage is resting his entire weight, keeping him from lifting his arms.
“And now that we're all set,” Jazz says, bracing his hands on Optimus' abdominal plating, glossa flicking across his lips. “We can get this show on the road. Ready, Bee?”
“More than,” the scout breathes, his hands sliding down Optimus' thighs, dipping between the bare gaps in his leg plating, teasing the cables beneath.
“Got your back, boss,” Mirage purrs, lips sliding down, teasing Optimus' audial.
He groans, stripped of words, writhing beneath the weight of his Special Ops team. Pleasure is an inviting fire in his valve and he's desperate for them to do something, anything to ease the ache.
“Good,” Jazz says, rising up, Optimus' spike slipping from his valve with a dribble of lubricant that Optimus' optics track with a ridiculous intensity. Only the rounded head of his spike remains in that welcoming heat, twitching in anticipation of its full return. “All right, boys. Let's move.”
And they do, by Primus, they do.
Optimus whimpers, and yes, he's calling it now, as Jazz sinks down as Bumblebee sinks in, igniting all of the sensors in his valve and spike at once. And Mirage is no less busy, fingers and glossa making short work of every sensitive node on Optimus' helm.
His hips buck, pushing his spike into Jazz's valve, calipers cycling and clenching in irregular rhythm, drawing out the charge. His own valve squeezes down on Bumblebee's spike, enjoying the catch of the scout's blunt nubs, charge crackling between them.
“Primus,” Bumblebee moans. “Feels so good.”
Jazz's fingers rap a nonsense rhythm across Optimus' abdominal plating. “Boss has got the stuff,” he agrees, visor lit up with pleasure. His hips surge and sink, clutching at Optimus' spike with each roll of his pelvis.
Optimus' heels scrape the berth, legs splayed wide for Bumblebee between them, pushing relentlessly into his valve, sensor nodes firing burst after burst of pleasure. His spike is encased in a wet, clasping warmth, Jazz's hips performing an erotic dance that Optimus enjoys watching and feeling.
Lips cover his from above, Mirage's glossa flicking over his own, tasting faintly of those energon goodies the noble likes to nibble all the time. His denta nip Optimus' lips in tiny pricks of pleasure-pain and Optimus moans, hips working an unsteady rhythm, caught between Jazz's valve and Bumblebee's spike.
Optimus shudders, overload sweeping through his systems and sending charge dancing across his circuits. He jerks, Jazz bouncing on his spike with a little moan, as transfluid spurts into Jazz's valve.
“Optimus!” Bumblebee shouts and Optimus can't see the scout but he feels the wash of transfluid in his valve, warm and tingling over his excited nodes, dragging another, sharper overload from his systems.
He hears Jazz cry out from a distance, feels the restless cycling of his third in command's valve, the hot and eager press of Mirage's energy field, and the soft petting of Bumblebee's hands, but then a third overload strikes him hard and fast and Optimus' world flashes to dark.
Optimus reboots thirty minutes later, relaxed and sated, but clean and alone. He gives himself a moment to process, optics cycling, memory returning. His shift will begin soon, though it's a faint disappointment that none of his Autobots had lingered for a snuggle.
He rolls off the berth onto his pedes, rubbing a hand down his face, half-expecting that it was all just some wonderful recharge-induced dream. Until he spies the datapad on his berthside table.
He picks it up, a message flashing onscreen. Thanks for the show, it says, and it's signed Mirage. There's a vid-file attached and curiosity demands that he watch it.
Oh.
Not a dream. And he has the video to prove it.
a/n: So far, I'm anticipating at least eight more parts though I wouldn't be surprised if a couple more jumped out at me. I don't know how fast they will come out as I'm using this as a infrequent break from writing my bigbang fic, but I'm going to try my best.
Writing a foursome was an interesting challenge. Hope you enjoyed!
