[G1] With Benefits - Part Three
Jul. 6th, 2013 09:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: More NSFW cracky pronz for your viewing pleasure. Tis 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. Inspired by this kinkmeme prompt.
Part Three - Hands All Over
Characters: OptimusxSunstreakerxTracks
Enticements: Tactile, Energy Fields, seductive talk
Optimus dries himself off in record time, mutters when he glances at his chronometer and rushes out the door.
It's only vorns upon vorns of battle-honed reflexes and maybe a bit of Matrix upgrade too that keeps him from colliding with two other mechs, lying in wait just outside the door.
Optimus performs an artful roll of his frame, narrowly avoids trampling Tracks, and jumps back to keep himself from scratching Sunstreaker. It's a move that Ironhide would be proud of.
“Good morning, Prime,” Tracks says, expression pleasant and not at all bothered by the near-collision.
“You look terrible,” Sunstreaker says, optics giving Optimus a long and in-depth once-over, measuring and obviously finding something of lack.
Tracks sighs, rubbing his faceplate.
Sunstreaker puffs up like a peacock. “Well, it's true,” he snaps and gestures toward Optimus absently. “Look at his finish. It's atrocious.”
There's a moment where Tracks obeys, his optics flicking over Optimus from helm to pede. “Well, Sunstreaker does have a point, sir.”
“Of course I do!” Sunstreaker huffs, planting his hands on his hips. “Next battle, the Decepticons are just going to laugh at us.” He scowls. “At least Megatron is always perfect. He's never scraped up and dull.”
“That's because Megatron treats his mechs like slag,” Tracks retorts with a long-suffering look.
Sunstreaker folds his arms over his chestplate. “It's still embarrassing,” he insists and shifts his attention to Optimus. “You have to let me do something about it.”
Tracks inclines his helm.”He's right. And well, between the both of us, we could have you done in record time.”
Optimus then finds himself pinned by their stares, both mechs looking at him expectantly. Oh. Is he expected to answer them? For a moment there, he thought they were too involved in their marital bickering.
“That's generous of you,” Optimus says, careful with his words because both of them have the tendency to be easily offended. “But I fear I am already running behind schedule and simply don't have the time.”
The two mechs exchange glances, Tracks' expression echoing confusion.
“But your shift doesn't start for an hour,” Sunstreaker says, optical ridges drawing low.
What?
Optimus stares at them, and then consults his schedule. By Primus, Sunstreaker is right. But he could have sworn...
This must be Jazz's fault. He and his team had been an effective distraction this morning and then Bluestreak and Smokescreen had only exacerbated the effects.
“Plenty of time,” Tracks says and it's Bluestreak all over again, Optimus unable to find a reason to say no and a selfish part of him eager to leap on the opportunity.
After all, it's not every day just anyone is offered a wax and polish from the two mechs on the Ark who are the best at it.
“Very well,” Optimus acquiesces. “Do your worst, or shall I say, best.”
Tracks grins, gesturing over his shoulder. “Great. My quarters are closer.”
“But mine have the better supplies,” Sunstreaker retorts and tilts his helm the opposite direction.
“And mine is nearer to the rec room,” Tracks insists, stepping closer to Sunstreaker, something off in his tone.
A moment passes.
“Right,” Sunstreaker says and looks up at Optimus. “Tracks' supplies are adequate enough. They'll do.”
Optimus feels as though he's missed a vital part of the conversation. Nevertheless, he follows along as his Autobots precede him down the hallway.
They bicker over everything, Optimus notices fondly.
Paint composition. Filler nanites. Cloth materials. Wax blends.
Optimus doesn't pretend to understand half of it. He uses stock cleanser, giant beach towels, and the cheap polish the Autobots order in bulk. He considers it adequate enough but not in the optics of Tracks and Sunstreaker.
According to them, said polish shouldn't be used on a toaster much less a Cybertronian.
Why on Earth anyone would polish a toaster is beyond Optimus' understanding.
Nevertheless, he submits to Tracks and Sunstreaker as they polish him to perfection. The rub of the soft cloths and the sweet smell of the wax seem to seep into Optimus' plating, relaxing him to his core. He finds himself sinking into the comfort of the berth, kinked cables unwinding and tension bleeding out of his hydraulics.
A soft sigh of pleasure escapes him. His plating loosens, lifting away from his substructure, air sifting in through the gaps and cooling him below. It, too, is rather nice. Optimus can't remember the last time he allowed himself to indulge like this.
Lazy warmth thrums through Optimus' system. He can almost slip into recharge just like this, their steady, talented servos gliding over his plating.
He has to admit that Tracks and Sunstreaker are both talented and efficient. They strip away his old layers, re-paint him, and wax him to a gleaming finish in record time. He even has some to spare before his shift starts.
“Thank you,” Optimus says as he admires himself in the mirror, almost not recognizing the mech reflected back at him. “You've done a great job.”
Sunstreaker huffs, though it's only a mild offense. “Of course.”
“And we're not done yet,” Tracks says, standing on Optimus' other side, opposite from Sunstreaker.
Optimus tilts his helm, unable to remember what they might have missed. “No?”
“No,” Tracks confirms and gives Optimus a once over. “We missed a spot right here.” He reaches out, fingers brushing a gap in Optimus' armor, sliding between the seams to a sensitive bundle of cables beneath.
A lance of pleasure bursts outward from the light touch, Optimus' systems humming with heat.
“It looks fine to me,” Optimus says.
“No, I think he's right,” Sunstreaker says, and gives his own critical look. “I think you could use a bit more hands-on work.” His own fingers brush over Optimus' back, tracing the length of his backstrut.
Tingles follow in the wake of Sunstreaker's fingers. Optimus fights a shiver and the rising current of arousal in his systems.
“I am not certain further polishing is what you intend,” Optimus says, though his pedes stay rooted in place. He's not exactly running from the room, now is he?
“Were we that obvious?” Tracks says, and his vocals drop several registers, into a resonating purr that seems to reverberate straight through Optimus' armor to his spark. Both hands flatten over Optimus' abdominal armor, sliding up in a slow, purring rasp against the thick metal.
He shivers again, pleasure a delicate and intriguing dance through his systems. “I fear that I haven't the time for whatever you might be planning, no matter how pleasurable the pursuit,” Optimus says and no, he can't hide the regret in his field.
“Surely you have a few minutes,” Sunstreaker supposes, his vocals matching Tracks resonation for resonation, only this time hitting Optimus' spark from behind. His hands follow the same track against Optimus' back plating as Tracks from the front.
How they are managing to work in tandem, Optimus cannot guess. But he can't deny that he is enjoying it.
Warmth hums a soft note through his systems, circuits heating with charge that winds a lazy path from helm to pede. He is already nice and relaxed from the polish and, he notices, reasonably aroused. How had he not noticed?
Tracks' fingers dance erotic paths in and out of the seams of Optimus' plating, long reach enabling him to caress the sensitized wires and cables beneath. “Every good polish deserves a happy ending.”
“A really happy ending,” Sunstreaker adds with a note of amusement mixed lightly into the bursts of smug satisfaction. He moves closer, heated ex-vents pushing between the gaps in Optimus' back plating and tickling the sensors beneath.
Arousal spills heavier through Optimus' systems, pleasure sweeping across his sensor net in a languid wave. His knees give an embarrassing wobble and his hands land on Tracks' shoulders for balance, feeling smooth armor beneath his haptic sensors.
“You deserve it,” Tracks murmurs, optics darkening to an aroused hue, his energy field rising with tangible curls of desire.
“You work hard,” Sunstreaker echoes, fingers knowledgeable and sure as they trek upward, skipping to Optimus' arms, and teasing at the base of his alt-mode smokestacks before sliding up the length of them.
Pleasure surges in the wake of Sunstreaker's deft touch. Optimus' spark gives a hard throb, heat circling faster and faster through his circuits.
“Every one should be spoiled once in a while, yes?” Tracks purrs, fingers dragging in a tap-tap-tap staccato up the slats of Optimus' grill. Each little tap sends a jolt through Optimus, charge dancing out from his substructure, snapping on empty air. His hands draw down on Tracks' shoulder, kneading the metal carefully.
“And touching you is hardly a chore,” Sunstreaker adds, and Optimus shivers as lips brush against his backstrut, charge snapping between Sunstreaker's mouth and his back plating.
“We like to touch,” Tracks agrees, his mouth pressing a soft kiss to Optimus' windshield, gleaming in the wake of their polishing session, his ex-vent fogging up the faux glass.
Ecstasy ripples through his field in an ascending wave that seems to fill Tracks' quarters. Optimus moans, bereft of refusal, giving himself over to their talented caresses.
The shift in Optimus' field becomes unmistakable, heat and desire soaking up every crack and crevice. He moans again, charge dancing and snapping over his armor, overload an inevitable pulse in his circuits.
“And you like to be touched,” Sunstreaker says, their words washing over his audials and around him, seducing him as effectively as their caresses. “It's win-win for everyone involved.”
Optimus' engine rumbles. Clever fingers insinuate themselves into his substructure, stroking over heated cables and charge-spitting wires. He gasps a vent, frame trembling as their lips trace searing paths over his plating.
Overload dances over his circuits, peppering his sensory net with bright bursts of sensation that make his spark twirl and throb. Optimus releases a low moan, sinking into their shared embrace as his frame shakes with pleasure.
“Was it good for you?” he hears Sunstreaker ask, amusement coloring his tone as his hands trace light, nonsensical designs against Optimus' back.
“You,” he murmurs as the overload winds down and his cooling fans struggle to whisk away the heat, “are as devious as your twin.”
Sunstreaker chuckles, a rare if not arousing sound. “You're just now figuring that out?”
“He just hides it better,” Tracks says as he draws back, once Optimus gets his pedes underneath him. “Though he can't take all the credit.”
Optimus smiles himself. “So I am coming to learn. My Autobots are full of surprises today.” He loosens his grasp on Tracks' shoulders, though not without a parting caress. It is only fair.
“Hmm,” Sunstreaker says, drawing back and circling around to Optimus' front. “You have just enough time to grab some energon before your shift starts.”
Tracks nods, linking arms with Sunstreaker, both of them looking ridiculously pleased with themselves. “Pretty well-timed if I do say so myself.”
Optimus arches an orbital ridge. “I feel as though I am missing something.” The hunch is a nagging sensation at the back of his processor, but his third overload of the day remains a languid pulse through his systems, dulling those suspicious thoughts.
“Nothing at all,” Sunstreaker replies, and makes a shooing motion with his free hand. “Though if you want to be on time, you might want to put metal to the pedal.”
There is a distinct impression that they are trying to chase him from the room. An impression that is justified when they all but back him toward the door, Tracks hitting the panel for it to open.
“Come back in a week,” Tracks says. “You'll need a touch-up by then.”
Optimus finds himself in the hall, staring as the door closes in front of him. True that he is running out of time before the beginning of his shift, but for a bot that's perennially early, he can't see anyone protesting his brief bout with tardiness. It would have been nice to indulge in a little snuggling.
Well, Tracks and Sunstreaker have a reputation of eccentricity for good reason, Optimus supposes.
To work it is, but first, a detour.
***
a/n: More parts to come! Next up, Optimus takes on a gaggle of horny minibots. :D. And following that is some command center fun with Blaster, Red Alert, and Inferno. Stay tuned!
Title: With Benefits
Universe: G1
Description: Optimus is about to have a very good day; he just doesn't know it yet. Inspired by this kinkmeme prompt.
Part Three - Hands All Over
Characters: OptimusxSunstreakerxTracks
Enticements: Tactile, Energy Fields, seductive talk
Optimus dries himself off in record time, mutters when he glances at his chronometer and rushes out the door.
It's only vorns upon vorns of battle-honed reflexes and maybe a bit of Matrix upgrade too that keeps him from colliding with two other mechs, lying in wait just outside the door.
Optimus performs an artful roll of his frame, narrowly avoids trampling Tracks, and jumps back to keep himself from scratching Sunstreaker. It's a move that Ironhide would be proud of.
“Good morning, Prime,” Tracks says, expression pleasant and not at all bothered by the near-collision.
“You look terrible,” Sunstreaker says, optics giving Optimus a long and in-depth once-over, measuring and obviously finding something of lack.
Tracks sighs, rubbing his faceplate.
Sunstreaker puffs up like a peacock. “Well, it's true,” he snaps and gestures toward Optimus absently. “Look at his finish. It's atrocious.”
There's a moment where Tracks obeys, his optics flicking over Optimus from helm to pede. “Well, Sunstreaker does have a point, sir.”
“Of course I do!” Sunstreaker huffs, planting his hands on his hips. “Next battle, the Decepticons are just going to laugh at us.” He scowls. “At least Megatron is always perfect. He's never scraped up and dull.”
“That's because Megatron treats his mechs like slag,” Tracks retorts with a long-suffering look.
Sunstreaker folds his arms over his chestplate. “It's still embarrassing,” he insists and shifts his attention to Optimus. “You have to let me do something about it.”
Tracks inclines his helm.”He's right. And well, between the both of us, we could have you done in record time.”
Optimus then finds himself pinned by their stares, both mechs looking at him expectantly. Oh. Is he expected to answer them? For a moment there, he thought they were too involved in their marital bickering.
“That's generous of you,” Optimus says, careful with his words because both of them have the tendency to be easily offended. “But I fear I am already running behind schedule and simply don't have the time.”
The two mechs exchange glances, Tracks' expression echoing confusion.
“But your shift doesn't start for an hour,” Sunstreaker says, optical ridges drawing low.
What?
Optimus stares at them, and then consults his schedule. By Primus, Sunstreaker is right. But he could have sworn...
This must be Jazz's fault. He and his team had been an effective distraction this morning and then Bluestreak and Smokescreen had only exacerbated the effects.
“Plenty of time,” Tracks says and it's Bluestreak all over again, Optimus unable to find a reason to say no and a selfish part of him eager to leap on the opportunity.
After all, it's not every day just anyone is offered a wax and polish from the two mechs on the Ark who are the best at it.
“Very well,” Optimus acquiesces. “Do your worst, or shall I say, best.”
Tracks grins, gesturing over his shoulder. “Great. My quarters are closer.”
“But mine have the better supplies,” Sunstreaker retorts and tilts his helm the opposite direction.
“And mine is nearer to the rec room,” Tracks insists, stepping closer to Sunstreaker, something off in his tone.
A moment passes.
“Right,” Sunstreaker says and looks up at Optimus. “Tracks' supplies are adequate enough. They'll do.”
Optimus feels as though he's missed a vital part of the conversation. Nevertheless, he follows along as his Autobots precede him down the hallway.
They bicker over everything, Optimus notices fondly.
Paint composition. Filler nanites. Cloth materials. Wax blends.
Optimus doesn't pretend to understand half of it. He uses stock cleanser, giant beach towels, and the cheap polish the Autobots order in bulk. He considers it adequate enough but not in the optics of Tracks and Sunstreaker.
According to them, said polish shouldn't be used on a toaster much less a Cybertronian.
Why on Earth anyone would polish a toaster is beyond Optimus' understanding.
Nevertheless, he submits to Tracks and Sunstreaker as they polish him to perfection. The rub of the soft cloths and the sweet smell of the wax seem to seep into Optimus' plating, relaxing him to his core. He finds himself sinking into the comfort of the berth, kinked cables unwinding and tension bleeding out of his hydraulics.
A soft sigh of pleasure escapes him. His plating loosens, lifting away from his substructure, air sifting in through the gaps and cooling him below. It, too, is rather nice. Optimus can't remember the last time he allowed himself to indulge like this.
Lazy warmth thrums through Optimus' system. He can almost slip into recharge just like this, their steady, talented servos gliding over his plating.
He has to admit that Tracks and Sunstreaker are both talented and efficient. They strip away his old layers, re-paint him, and wax him to a gleaming finish in record time. He even has some to spare before his shift starts.
“Thank you,” Optimus says as he admires himself in the mirror, almost not recognizing the mech reflected back at him. “You've done a great job.”
Sunstreaker huffs, though it's only a mild offense. “Of course.”
“And we're not done yet,” Tracks says, standing on Optimus' other side, opposite from Sunstreaker.
Optimus tilts his helm, unable to remember what they might have missed. “No?”
“No,” Tracks confirms and gives Optimus a once over. “We missed a spot right here.” He reaches out, fingers brushing a gap in Optimus' armor, sliding between the seams to a sensitive bundle of cables beneath.
A lance of pleasure bursts outward from the light touch, Optimus' systems humming with heat.
“It looks fine to me,” Optimus says.
“No, I think he's right,” Sunstreaker says, and gives his own critical look. “I think you could use a bit more hands-on work.” His own fingers brush over Optimus' back, tracing the length of his backstrut.
Tingles follow in the wake of Sunstreaker's fingers. Optimus fights a shiver and the rising current of arousal in his systems.
“I am not certain further polishing is what you intend,” Optimus says, though his pedes stay rooted in place. He's not exactly running from the room, now is he?
“Were we that obvious?” Tracks says, and his vocals drop several registers, into a resonating purr that seems to reverberate straight through Optimus' armor to his spark. Both hands flatten over Optimus' abdominal armor, sliding up in a slow, purring rasp against the thick metal.
He shivers again, pleasure a delicate and intriguing dance through his systems. “I fear that I haven't the time for whatever you might be planning, no matter how pleasurable the pursuit,” Optimus says and no, he can't hide the regret in his field.
“Surely you have a few minutes,” Sunstreaker supposes, his vocals matching Tracks resonation for resonation, only this time hitting Optimus' spark from behind. His hands follow the same track against Optimus' back plating as Tracks from the front.
How they are managing to work in tandem, Optimus cannot guess. But he can't deny that he is enjoying it.
Warmth hums a soft note through his systems, circuits heating with charge that winds a lazy path from helm to pede. He is already nice and relaxed from the polish and, he notices, reasonably aroused. How had he not noticed?
Tracks' fingers dance erotic paths in and out of the seams of Optimus' plating, long reach enabling him to caress the sensitized wires and cables beneath. “Every good polish deserves a happy ending.”
“A really happy ending,” Sunstreaker adds with a note of amusement mixed lightly into the bursts of smug satisfaction. He moves closer, heated ex-vents pushing between the gaps in Optimus' back plating and tickling the sensors beneath.
Arousal spills heavier through Optimus' systems, pleasure sweeping across his sensor net in a languid wave. His knees give an embarrassing wobble and his hands land on Tracks' shoulders for balance, feeling smooth armor beneath his haptic sensors.
“You deserve it,” Tracks murmurs, optics darkening to an aroused hue, his energy field rising with tangible curls of desire.
“You work hard,” Sunstreaker echoes, fingers knowledgeable and sure as they trek upward, skipping to Optimus' arms, and teasing at the base of his alt-mode smokestacks before sliding up the length of them.
Pleasure surges in the wake of Sunstreaker's deft touch. Optimus' spark gives a hard throb, heat circling faster and faster through his circuits.
“Every one should be spoiled once in a while, yes?” Tracks purrs, fingers dragging in a tap-tap-tap staccato up the slats of Optimus' grill. Each little tap sends a jolt through Optimus, charge dancing out from his substructure, snapping on empty air. His hands draw down on Tracks' shoulder, kneading the metal carefully.
“And touching you is hardly a chore,” Sunstreaker adds, and Optimus shivers as lips brush against his backstrut, charge snapping between Sunstreaker's mouth and his back plating.
“We like to touch,” Tracks agrees, his mouth pressing a soft kiss to Optimus' windshield, gleaming in the wake of their polishing session, his ex-vent fogging up the faux glass.
Ecstasy ripples through his field in an ascending wave that seems to fill Tracks' quarters. Optimus moans, bereft of refusal, giving himself over to their talented caresses.
The shift in Optimus' field becomes unmistakable, heat and desire soaking up every crack and crevice. He moans again, charge dancing and snapping over his armor, overload an inevitable pulse in his circuits.
“And you like to be touched,” Sunstreaker says, their words washing over his audials and around him, seducing him as effectively as their caresses. “It's win-win for everyone involved.”
Optimus' engine rumbles. Clever fingers insinuate themselves into his substructure, stroking over heated cables and charge-spitting wires. He gasps a vent, frame trembling as their lips trace searing paths over his plating.
Overload dances over his circuits, peppering his sensory net with bright bursts of sensation that make his spark twirl and throb. Optimus releases a low moan, sinking into their shared embrace as his frame shakes with pleasure.
“Was it good for you?” he hears Sunstreaker ask, amusement coloring his tone as his hands trace light, nonsensical designs against Optimus' back.
“You,” he murmurs as the overload winds down and his cooling fans struggle to whisk away the heat, “are as devious as your twin.”
Sunstreaker chuckles, a rare if not arousing sound. “You're just now figuring that out?”
“He just hides it better,” Tracks says as he draws back, once Optimus gets his pedes underneath him. “Though he can't take all the credit.”
Optimus smiles himself. “So I am coming to learn. My Autobots are full of surprises today.” He loosens his grasp on Tracks' shoulders, though not without a parting caress. It is only fair.
“Hmm,” Sunstreaker says, drawing back and circling around to Optimus' front. “You have just enough time to grab some energon before your shift starts.”
Tracks nods, linking arms with Sunstreaker, both of them looking ridiculously pleased with themselves. “Pretty well-timed if I do say so myself.”
Optimus arches an orbital ridge. “I feel as though I am missing something.” The hunch is a nagging sensation at the back of his processor, but his third overload of the day remains a languid pulse through his systems, dulling those suspicious thoughts.
“Nothing at all,” Sunstreaker replies, and makes a shooing motion with his free hand. “Though if you want to be on time, you might want to put metal to the pedal.”
There is a distinct impression that they are trying to chase him from the room. An impression that is justified when they all but back him toward the door, Tracks hitting the panel for it to open.
“Come back in a week,” Tracks says. “You'll need a touch-up by then.”
Optimus finds himself in the hall, staring as the door closes in front of him. True that he is running out of time before the beginning of his shift, but for a bot that's perennially early, he can't see anyone protesting his brief bout with tardiness. It would have been nice to indulge in a little snuggling.
Well, Tracks and Sunstreaker have a reputation of eccentricity for good reason, Optimus supposes.
To work it is, but first, a detour.
a/n: More parts to come! Next up, Optimus takes on a gaggle of horny minibots. :D. And following that is some command center fun with Blaster, Red Alert, and Inferno. Stay tuned!
