[G1] With Benefits - Part Five
Mar. 28th, 2014 09:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: And another NSFW installment of my Optimus pronz series. I tried to make these as varied and kinky as possible so here's hoping I succeeded. Enjoy! (And also, self-betad. All mistakes are my own)
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 Five: Business As Usual
Characters: OptimusxInfernoxBlasterxRed Alert
Enticements: Sticky, Light restraint, tentacles-ish, public sex, possible OOC and maybe cracky?
It takes the better part of five minutes to disentangle their cables and return themselves to a semblance of order. Optimus' pedes are a bit wobbly beneath him, the pleasure thrumming a happy warmth through his systems, and to his credit, most of his interface partners are shaky in the knees as well.
More energon is acquired and shared before they go their separate ways, Optimus toward his office and the minibot horde toward whatever it is they are actually supposed to be doing. Amusement tugs at Optimus as he watches them go, jostling and nudging each other with elbows and shoulders, like a pack of human football players.
He is at once glad he had opted to indulge them rather than be on time for his shift. A little camaraderie between his Autobots can go a long way. That he enjoyed it immensely is an accidental benefit.
Shaking his helm, Optimus turns toward his office, ever aware of how grossly late he is at this point. Frankly, he's surprised no one's pinged his comm for an explanation. Usually, by this point, Red Alert would be fretting because tardiness is so unlike Optimus. Prowl would also be sending him a dry message, amusement buried within the words, teasing Optimus in a rare show of humor.
Yet, there is nothing. How curious.
Optimus plans to swing by his office, scoop his paperwork into his subspace, and then head to the command center. He'll make a brief appearance, do a few rounds of the Ark, and think about attending to the stack of datapads requiring his signature.
He no sooner steps into the corner of the Ark that serves as his office than his communications net pings. Optimus grins, expecting to find a message of Red Alert urgency, only to open the file and find another video attached. He doesn't even have to play the first few seconds to guess what it is.
Amused, Optimus sends that video file to join the others he's collecting today – Mirage is quite the busy agent. It is a testament to his skills that Optimus has yet to notice the noble spy recording him.
Optimus finishes off his energon, tucks away the cube, and then looks at his desk.
What...?
He reboots his optics and looks again.
There is nothing on his desk. His inbox is empty. His outbox is empty. There aren't even any blank patches in the dust to indicate where stacks of datapads had once been. In fact, there isn't any dust at all.
Come to think of it...
Optimus turns in a slow circle, looking around his office. There isn't a speck of dust to be found anywhere. His whole office has been thoroughly cleaned from top to bottom. The floor sparkles. His bookshelf has been alphabetized and organized. His desk is clear of work.
Did he walk into Prowl's office by mistake?
The urge to walk back out, check the name on the door, nearly overcomes him. Optimus can't remember a time his desk has been clear of some kind of paperwork, both backlog and current. There's always so much he's never finished.
Someone has taken the time to not only clean his office, but complete his work, all but giving him a free day. Optimus has no idea what to do with the opportunity or himself. He doesn't know who to thank either. It baffles him.
Perhaps Prowl will have an answer.
Still amazed, Optimus heads back out of his office and makes for the command center. Prowl should be on duty right now. Maybe he's the one Optimus should thank.
Strange, however, that the hallways are yet again empty. Is there some celebration or holiday of which Optimus is unaware? Had there been another one of Sideswipe's infamous parties which is causing his Autobots to remain in their berths except for those attending to their duties?
It is rare for the Ark to be so quiet. It is almost unnerving. Or it would be. Red Alert must be beside himself with glee. No trouble-makers and no noise? It's just about a vacation for the stressed-out security mech. Which is good because Red Alert certainly deserves one.
Smiling at the thought of his security director relaxed and at ease for once, Optimus strides into the command center, only to find the aforementioned mech sitting where Prowl should have been. Blaster is beside him, on communications, and Inferno is nearby. No one is at the secondary monitors.
And Red Alert's not fritzing out because no one's showed up for their shift? Optimus has to reboot his visual systems - again - just to be sure he's not seeing things.
“Good morning, sir,” says Inferno with a bright tone. “Recharge well?”
“Morning, big boss,” adds Blaster with a happy wave over his shoulder. “You're looking in fine spirits today.”
“Nothing to report,” says Red Alert in a scarily cheerful tone. “Aren't you supposed to have the day off, sir?”
Optimus reboots his audials, still taken aback. “Not that I'm aware,” he says, carefully choosing his words. “Is Prowl not on shift today?”
“We switched,” Red Alert replies, swiveling back toward the main monitor. “He will be in command later this evening.”
Something tickles at Optimus' right pede. He shifts his weight, rolling his ankle to soothe whatever is twitching. Probably a kinked line or two. He'll have Ratchet take a look later if the irritation persists.
“I see.” Optimus moves closer to the console, optics searching the monitors for any signs of humans in distress. “Any movement from the Decepticons?”
“Not so much as a moonwalk, boss,” Blaster replies with a grin. “They're still licking their wounds and sulking over their loss. I'm sure Megatron will hit us with another overly elaborate plan soon enough.”
Optimus inclines his helm. “Even so, we should all be on alert. Megatron has surprised us before.”
His left ankle twitches this time. Optimus shakes his pede discreetly and reaches for the stack of datapads at Red Alert's right, only to be surprised when his security director slaps a hand on top of the pile.
“You are supposed to be off-shift today, sir,” Red Alert says, giving Optimus a stern look. “Not pilfering my work for yourself.”
Optimus wisely retracts his hand. Red Alert could be surprisingly possessive about the oddest things.
“I was curious,” Optimus says with a smile and returns his attentions to the screens where, again, nothing is happening. He doesn't know why the Decepticons are so quiet, but he's more than willing to enjoy the momentary peace. “But very well, I'll leave them alone.”
“Good.” Red Alert takes his hand from the stack and returns his attention to his duty.
Something twitches at Optimus' ankle again. He hears the sound of muffled laughter but when he looks at Blaster and Inferno, they are stone-faced.
The tickle turns into a simmer of pleasure. Optimus looks down and finds a data cable wound around his ankle. The small manipulators have emerged from the tip and they are what's currently teasing the servos in his ankle.
Optimus tracks the length of the cable, finding that it leads straight to... Red Alert?
Optimus coughs into his hand. “Red Alert,” he says, attempting to sound stern but it's difficult to pull off when he's so amused. “Why is your data cable wrapped around my ankle?”
On the other side of the command center, Inferno roars a laugh. “Because he thinks he's being subtle.”
Red Alert huffs, though he never takes his optics off the monitor system. “That is subtle. Just because I don't walk in with a swagger, dropping lewd comments, you find my flirtatious overtures to be ridiculous!”
“I think it's cute,” says Blaster, lips drawn into a wide smile.
Flirtatious overture? Is that what it was?
“I'm flattered,” Optimus says with a warm smile for his security director, laying a hand on Red Alert's shoulder. “Once you are off duty, I will be happy to take you up on that offer.”
Pleasure vibrates in Red Alert's energy field, along with a dose of pride. “Why not now?” he asks, to Optimus' surprise. “I am capable of dividing my attention accordingly.”
Optimus' mouth opens and closes and repeats the action, but no words emerge. He finds it hard to believe that the suggestion came from Red Alert of all mechs.
“It's a secret fantasy of his,” Inferno says in a loud whisper and a lewd wink. “Something he's always wanted to try and I have to admit, I'd like to see it.”
“I'd like to participate,” adds Blaster with a cheerful blurt of some kind of sensuous saxophone trill. One of his data cables emerges from his lateral ports, waving a greeting at Optimus.
Optimus cycles his optics. “I must admit I'm tempted,” he says, hand still resting on Red Alert's shoulder and feeling the smaller mech heat up beneath his fingers. “Though I maintain that the safety of the Ark and the humans is paramount.”
“Prowl can observe 800 moving objects at once,” Red Alert states, something in his tone implying affront. “I am optimized for locating the tiniest gap in a security grid and discovering the most minute weakness. If you think I would suggest this without being capable of ensuring one-hundred percent protection at all times then clearly, you need another security director.”
Silence.
Inferno coughs into his palm.
Blaster's saxophone line ends with a surprised hiccup.
“My apologies,” Optimus says, nearly shifting his weight from apprehension. “I would be pleased to take part in your fantasy, Red Alert.” He eyes the other two observers. “And anyone else who wishes to join.”
A touch of embarrassment colors Red Alert's field but he dips his helm in a nod. “Thank you,” he says, and the cable returns, sliding around Optimus' ankle in something he can only term a hug. “And if those two miscreants promise to behave, they are allowed to participate.”
“Behave?” Blaster says with a laugh, though he moves to take a closer chair. “I thought the whole point was to misbehave.”
“Within reason,” Red Alert cautions, waggling a finger at them and unraveling another data cable, all without taking his optics off the screen or his second hand from the control panel. A master of multi-tasking indeed.
Inferno chuckles. “For the record, I'm game.”
“And in case I wasn't clear, so am I,” Blaster says as his chair slides across the floor, bumping into Red Alert's so that they share panel space. “I'll share the load, Red. Enjoy yourself.”
A thin cable spools from Blaster's right forearm, connecting with the control panel, even as his lateral seams part, a bundle of thinner data cables emerging.
Red Alert and Blaster are of different frame-types, so their cables are modified for different functions. Red Alert's for data retrieval and Blaster's for communications. In many ways, Blaster is just as capable of splitting his attention as Red Alert, though his is more along the lines of tracking multiple conversations at once.
The second of Red Alert's cables wind around Optimus' other pede, both of them circling his legs in a steady climb upward until he's immobile from the hips down. He can, if he wants, break free, but not without damaging Red Alert in the process. It's the illusion of immobility that matters.
Optimus looks down just as a thinner cable taps on his chestplate, between his windshields. It ripples at him as though seeking permission.
“Sector Fifteen, clear,” says Red Alert and for a moment, Optimus boggles. Red Alert truly does intend to continue to work, despite the fact the furthest ends of his datacables are caressing every inch of Optimus' abdominal and pelvic plating.
“Roger-dodger, relaying that to security team now,” Blaster contributes and Optimus glances his communications officer's direction. Both of them intend to split their attention?
Color him impressed.
Blaster's smaller cable takes his lack of rejection as permission and slides into a transformation seam between his windshields. It's an interesting sensation to feel that thin cable wriggling along his struts and cables, brushing over sensor nodes on the underside of his armor and on his protoform.
The cable pauses and Optimus can't see what it's doing, but he can feel it. A dozen tiny filaments spiral from the tip, latching onto his protoform with thin tendrils. Optimus shivers as each one latches onto a sensor, directly stimulating it. Which feels... nice actually. More than pleasant.
The tiny burst of electric static that accompanies them, however, is much, much nicer and Optimus tries and fails to stifle a groan. He twitches from helm to pede, moving into a touch that's beneath his armor and invisible to outside viewers. To anyone watching -- Mirage, he guesses -- it would appear he's reacting to nothing.
Optimus moans, torso rattling and hands clenching into fists as he can't move his pedes. Each sensor node sends him an update defining sensation and pressure and the pleasure builds and builds. He sucks in a startled ventilation, jerking and then feels himself tipping backward, unable to correct without use of his legs and pedes.
There's a thunk as he hits something solid behind him, colliding with a chestplate that thrums against his back. Arms come up around him, holding him in place.
“Inferno...?” Optimus assumes aloud.
A deep chuckle echoes in his audial. “Oh, don't mind me,” Inferno replies, hold firm but otherwise chaste. “I'm just the furniture, here for a show.” His hands slide up from Optimus' sides, to his underarms and then up his arms, gradually pulling them up and over Optimus' helm, keeping his torso pinned in much the same manner as his lower half.
Again, it is a hold Optimus can easily break, but with Blaster systematically igniting every sensor in his substructure and Red Alert's cables squeezing his legs in intervals, Optimus finds he doesn't want to.
A moan spills from his vocalizer as Red Alert's cables skirt his inner thighs before brushing his interface panel. Optimus heats up from helm to pede, helm tipping so that he can watch the flexible cable as it prods and slides along his sensitive panels.
“Sector Sixteen, clear,” Red Alert says as the first cable circles Optimus' valve panel over and over again, as though trying to tease him into opening.
“Check and double-check,” Blaster says, his smaller cables spreading further beneath Optimus' armor in a thin web over his substructure. Each filament seems happy to latch onto a sensor node, sending tiny electrical impulses straight into his sensor net.
Optimus' panel snaps open, lubricant dribbling outward as his calipers cycle hungrily. Red Alert's focus seems to be on his monitoring, but there's no denying the intent in his cable as it slides along the dribble of lubricant before wriggling upward.
Red Alert's cable pushes into his valve, smaller than a spike, but warm and conductive, making him eager for more. It pushes deeper, sliding through the lubricant and Optimus' valve clenches down, soaking up every bit of sensation.
And then the connective port spirals open and tiny filaments spiral out, attaching to every one of Optimus' sensory nodes in his valve. It tickles at first, and then he shouts, frame arching as Red Alert does something that makes each and every one of them come to life. Inferno struggles to hold him in place, fingers tightening around his wrists. Optimus shakes, hips moving to their own rhythm, as the pleasure throbs through him.
A second cable joins the first, pushing into his valve and adding to the stretch. Both cables tighten around his legs, further immobilizing him and keeping him open for the steady push-pull into his valve. Optimus can feel the lubricant dripping out of him, slicking his thighs, making a puddle on the floor. He ought to feel embarrassed, but he can't, not when the pleasure shoots through him like a lightning bolt.
Inferno's embrace tightens, shifting his weight to help keep Optimus upright. He's vibrating against Optimus' back, frame expelling heat in soft waves that batter against Optimus' plating. His own vents blast open, fans thrumming as they suck in long draughts of cooler air.
He's going to need to change his filters again at this rate. And Ratchet's going to need to replace a few circuits, top off his fluids, prescribe berth rest...
“Sector Seventeen, clear,” Red Alert says, his vocals droning in the background, beneath the rushing in Optimus' audials.
The two cables pump in and out of his valve in opposing rhythms, the friction between them adding to the friction against his valve walls. Each withdraw sets a light pull against the filaments attached to his sensors that registers as pleasure more than pain. His calipers flutter, unsure whether to cycle down or loosen, and the conflicting sensations make the heat tighten into a desperate coil within Optimus' abdomen.
“Clear as a bell,” Blaster says and an electric impulse comes straight down his cable and into Optimus' substructure.
He writhes within the confines of Red Alert's cables and Inferno's hold, hearing his plating clatter and his vents stutter. His moan overrides the soft beeping of the command console and he feels the lubricant slick down his legs, joining the puddle on the floor.
One of the cables pushes deeper, filling his valve completely and pressing against his retral node. Rather than flicking across it like the motion of a spike, the tip of the cable applies a constant pressure, circling the sensory node over and over and over again. Optimus' legs tremble and he falls harder against Inferno, valve cycling down on the two cables as he feels the overload creeping over him.
He sucks in a stuttered ventilation, optics cutting off, hands drawing into fists. Blaster and Red Alert talk about another sector, but Optimus can't hear the details over his vents, the clattering of his armor, the somehow audible noise of the cables moving through the lubricant of his valve. Every burst of electric impulse from Blaster's cable seems to move straight through his frame to his valve, where Red Alert's cables drive his sensory nodes mad with pleasure.
A sound that has no definition emerges from Optimus' vocalizer as he arches with his overload, entire frame shaking. His valve contracts squeezing down on Red Alert's cables as electricity crawls across his frame in a display that surely lights up the control room. Pleasure ripples through him, overriding his conscious, and it's several long minutes before Optimus comes down from his sensory-overload.
The sound of several cooling fans seems to roar in the command center. Optimus forces his optics back online, finding Blaster half-bent over the main console and Red Alert's helm dipped, hands locked on the arms of his chair. Behind him, Inferno is vibrating, pushing so much heat at Optimus that he can't cool himself down.
The cables in his valve, on his limbs, and buried over his substructure are all trembling, giving stuttered flashes of charge that are less intended to excite as they are unintentional aftershocks.
“S-sector Nineteen,” Red Alert stutters, his vocals laced with static. “C-clear.”
Blaster lets loose a dry laugh that in no way constitutes a legitimate response.
Inferno's forehelm hits the back of Optimus' shoulders as a low chuckle escapes him. “He's determined, that's for sure."
Amusement rises up within Optimus as well, though it's tinged with affection. He has to give Red Alert credit. The mech's field is radiating satisfaction and the buzz of a recent overload but he's gamely watching the primary monitors and keeping the Ark secure.
And, well, Optimus, too. He twitches his legs and flares his plating, bringing attention to the fact he's still restrained.
“Oh, sorry, OP,” Blaster says, still bent over the console as though he can't bring himself to lift up. “Let me just...” he trails off as the filaments of his cables gradually retract from Optimus' substructure, leaving a faint tingling in their wake.
It's nearly enough to rev Optimus all over again. He cycles several careful ventilations, though heat begins to curl lazily within him. One would think he's had enough after a day like today, but it's as if someone has tainted his energon with some kind of arousal-inducing ingredient. He has never known himself to have such a libido before.
Blaster blindly reaches over, prodding Red Alert in a lateral seam. “You, too, Red,” he says. “Prime's getting squirrelly.”
“That's not the word I'd use,” Inferno says, his hands loosening their grip on Optimus, only so that they can start to roam, mapping out the contours of his upper frame and chestplate. “You feel ready for a second round, Prime.”
It's all Optimus can do to keep himself still as Blaster continues to withdraw his sensory cables with agonizing slowness. Red Alert, though lacking a vocal response, begins to unwind his cables as well, leaving a mess of lubricant in his wake and scraping his cables along the inside of Optimus' valve. He shivers.
“Keep that up and I might be,” Optimus declares as Blaster finally manages to push himself upright, cloaking himself in a veil of discipline.
“Sector Nineteen, check,” Blaster says after making a sound not unlike a human clearing his or her throat.
Inferno's amusement buffers at his energy field. “You tempt me, Prime.” His grip slides back to Optimus' hips, holding him still as Red Alert carefully frees Optimus' legs and pedes, granting him freedom of movement.
“Alas, I must return to work,” Optimus says, though he still remembers the emptiness of his desk and the lack of datapads in his inbox.
“No, you have an off-shift all day,” Inferno reminds him, hands giving Optimus' a light squeeze before he steps back, all but setting Optimus back on his own two pedes. “And you should be enjoying every minute of it.”
“Sector Twenty is clear,” Red Alert says, sounding more, well, alert. He lifts his helm, scanning the monitors. “And Inferno's right, sir. You should get your aft out of the command center before the urge to do work overcomes you.”
“As if any of us are going to be thinking of work now,” Blaster says with a laugh, cutting his optics toward Red Alert before adding, “I mean, only thinking of work.” He winks.
Optimus wobbles on his pedes but manages to cling to an air of dignity. “We are fortunate that all of you are so dedicated to keeping us safe.”
Red Alert waves a cable at him, the tip of it glistening with lubricant. “Yes, yes. Now begone with you, Optimus. We have work to do and you have fun to enjoy.” He says 'fun' with the same sort of distaste most Autobots use in referring to Decepticons. Though it's hard to take him seriously with the scent of ozone so thick in the air and the pool of lubricant beneath Optimus.
He gives said pool a look and gingerly steps around it. “Command received,” Optimus says and backs toward the exit.
He watches as Red Alert snaps at Blaster to get back to work, even as a cleaning drone putters out from beneath the console to attend to the mess. Inferno chuckles to himself, pulling a cloth from subspace to wipe himself down and Blaster gives a heavy sigh of resignation as he relays the newly cleared sectors to whomever is on perimeter patrol.
Business as usual. Just like that.
****
a/n: I may, possibly, be having more fun writing these than is socially acceptable. :D
Inferno, Red Alert, and Blaster are three characters I rarely write so they are possibly a little OOC but it's all in the name of slightly cracky porn so I hope that can be excused.
I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is always welcome and appreciated.
Coming up next, Optimus heeds Inferno's advice and wanders to the training arena and stumbles upon another public display to which he is, of course, invited. 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 Five: Business As Usual
Characters: OptimusxInfernoxBlasterxRed Alert
Enticements: Sticky, Light restraint, tentacles-ish, public sex, possible OOC and maybe cracky?
It takes the better part of five minutes to disentangle their cables and return themselves to a semblance of order. Optimus' pedes are a bit wobbly beneath him, the pleasure thrumming a happy warmth through his systems, and to his credit, most of his interface partners are shaky in the knees as well.
More energon is acquired and shared before they go their separate ways, Optimus toward his office and the minibot horde toward whatever it is they are actually supposed to be doing. Amusement tugs at Optimus as he watches them go, jostling and nudging each other with elbows and shoulders, like a pack of human football players.
He is at once glad he had opted to indulge them rather than be on time for his shift. A little camaraderie between his Autobots can go a long way. That he enjoyed it immensely is an accidental benefit.
Shaking his helm, Optimus turns toward his office, ever aware of how grossly late he is at this point. Frankly, he's surprised no one's pinged his comm for an explanation. Usually, by this point, Red Alert would be fretting because tardiness is so unlike Optimus. Prowl would also be sending him a dry message, amusement buried within the words, teasing Optimus in a rare show of humor.
Yet, there is nothing. How curious.
Optimus plans to swing by his office, scoop his paperwork into his subspace, and then head to the command center. He'll make a brief appearance, do a few rounds of the Ark, and think about attending to the stack of datapads requiring his signature.
He no sooner steps into the corner of the Ark that serves as his office than his communications net pings. Optimus grins, expecting to find a message of Red Alert urgency, only to open the file and find another video attached. He doesn't even have to play the first few seconds to guess what it is.
Amused, Optimus sends that video file to join the others he's collecting today – Mirage is quite the busy agent. It is a testament to his skills that Optimus has yet to notice the noble spy recording him.
Optimus finishes off his energon, tucks away the cube, and then looks at his desk.
What...?
He reboots his optics and looks again.
There is nothing on his desk. His inbox is empty. His outbox is empty. There aren't even any blank patches in the dust to indicate where stacks of datapads had once been. In fact, there isn't any dust at all.
Come to think of it...
Optimus turns in a slow circle, looking around his office. There isn't a speck of dust to be found anywhere. His whole office has been thoroughly cleaned from top to bottom. The floor sparkles. His bookshelf has been alphabetized and organized. His desk is clear of work.
Did he walk into Prowl's office by mistake?
The urge to walk back out, check the name on the door, nearly overcomes him. Optimus can't remember a time his desk has been clear of some kind of paperwork, both backlog and current. There's always so much he's never finished.
Someone has taken the time to not only clean his office, but complete his work, all but giving him a free day. Optimus has no idea what to do with the opportunity or himself. He doesn't know who to thank either. It baffles him.
Perhaps Prowl will have an answer.
Still amazed, Optimus heads back out of his office and makes for the command center. Prowl should be on duty right now. Maybe he's the one Optimus should thank.
Strange, however, that the hallways are yet again empty. Is there some celebration or holiday of which Optimus is unaware? Had there been another one of Sideswipe's infamous parties which is causing his Autobots to remain in their berths except for those attending to their duties?
It is rare for the Ark to be so quiet. It is almost unnerving. Or it would be. Red Alert must be beside himself with glee. No trouble-makers and no noise? It's just about a vacation for the stressed-out security mech. Which is good because Red Alert certainly deserves one.
Smiling at the thought of his security director relaxed and at ease for once, Optimus strides into the command center, only to find the aforementioned mech sitting where Prowl should have been. Blaster is beside him, on communications, and Inferno is nearby. No one is at the secondary monitors.
And Red Alert's not fritzing out because no one's showed up for their shift? Optimus has to reboot his visual systems - again - just to be sure he's not seeing things.
“Good morning, sir,” says Inferno with a bright tone. “Recharge well?”
“Morning, big boss,” adds Blaster with a happy wave over his shoulder. “You're looking in fine spirits today.”
“Nothing to report,” says Red Alert in a scarily cheerful tone. “Aren't you supposed to have the day off, sir?”
Optimus reboots his audials, still taken aback. “Not that I'm aware,” he says, carefully choosing his words. “Is Prowl not on shift today?”
“We switched,” Red Alert replies, swiveling back toward the main monitor. “He will be in command later this evening.”
Something tickles at Optimus' right pede. He shifts his weight, rolling his ankle to soothe whatever is twitching. Probably a kinked line or two. He'll have Ratchet take a look later if the irritation persists.
“I see.” Optimus moves closer to the console, optics searching the monitors for any signs of humans in distress. “Any movement from the Decepticons?”
“Not so much as a moonwalk, boss,” Blaster replies with a grin. “They're still licking their wounds and sulking over their loss. I'm sure Megatron will hit us with another overly elaborate plan soon enough.”
Optimus inclines his helm. “Even so, we should all be on alert. Megatron has surprised us before.”
His left ankle twitches this time. Optimus shakes his pede discreetly and reaches for the stack of datapads at Red Alert's right, only to be surprised when his security director slaps a hand on top of the pile.
“You are supposed to be off-shift today, sir,” Red Alert says, giving Optimus a stern look. “Not pilfering my work for yourself.”
Optimus wisely retracts his hand. Red Alert could be surprisingly possessive about the oddest things.
“I was curious,” Optimus says with a smile and returns his attentions to the screens where, again, nothing is happening. He doesn't know why the Decepticons are so quiet, but he's more than willing to enjoy the momentary peace. “But very well, I'll leave them alone.”
“Good.” Red Alert takes his hand from the stack and returns his attention to his duty.
Something twitches at Optimus' ankle again. He hears the sound of muffled laughter but when he looks at Blaster and Inferno, they are stone-faced.
The tickle turns into a simmer of pleasure. Optimus looks down and finds a data cable wound around his ankle. The small manipulators have emerged from the tip and they are what's currently teasing the servos in his ankle.
Optimus tracks the length of the cable, finding that it leads straight to... Red Alert?
Optimus coughs into his hand. “Red Alert,” he says, attempting to sound stern but it's difficult to pull off when he's so amused. “Why is your data cable wrapped around my ankle?”
On the other side of the command center, Inferno roars a laugh. “Because he thinks he's being subtle.”
Red Alert huffs, though he never takes his optics off the monitor system. “That is subtle. Just because I don't walk in with a swagger, dropping lewd comments, you find my flirtatious overtures to be ridiculous!”
“I think it's cute,” says Blaster, lips drawn into a wide smile.
Flirtatious overture? Is that what it was?
“I'm flattered,” Optimus says with a warm smile for his security director, laying a hand on Red Alert's shoulder. “Once you are off duty, I will be happy to take you up on that offer.”
Pleasure vibrates in Red Alert's energy field, along with a dose of pride. “Why not now?” he asks, to Optimus' surprise. “I am capable of dividing my attention accordingly.”
Optimus' mouth opens and closes and repeats the action, but no words emerge. He finds it hard to believe that the suggestion came from Red Alert of all mechs.
“It's a secret fantasy of his,” Inferno says in a loud whisper and a lewd wink. “Something he's always wanted to try and I have to admit, I'd like to see it.”
“I'd like to participate,” adds Blaster with a cheerful blurt of some kind of sensuous saxophone trill. One of his data cables emerges from his lateral ports, waving a greeting at Optimus.
Optimus cycles his optics. “I must admit I'm tempted,” he says, hand still resting on Red Alert's shoulder and feeling the smaller mech heat up beneath his fingers. “Though I maintain that the safety of the Ark and the humans is paramount.”
“Prowl can observe 800 moving objects at once,” Red Alert states, something in his tone implying affront. “I am optimized for locating the tiniest gap in a security grid and discovering the most minute weakness. If you think I would suggest this without being capable of ensuring one-hundred percent protection at all times then clearly, you need another security director.”
Silence.
Inferno coughs into his palm.
Blaster's saxophone line ends with a surprised hiccup.
“My apologies,” Optimus says, nearly shifting his weight from apprehension. “I would be pleased to take part in your fantasy, Red Alert.” He eyes the other two observers. “And anyone else who wishes to join.”
A touch of embarrassment colors Red Alert's field but he dips his helm in a nod. “Thank you,” he says, and the cable returns, sliding around Optimus' ankle in something he can only term a hug. “And if those two miscreants promise to behave, they are allowed to participate.”
“Behave?” Blaster says with a laugh, though he moves to take a closer chair. “I thought the whole point was to misbehave.”
“Within reason,” Red Alert cautions, waggling a finger at them and unraveling another data cable, all without taking his optics off the screen or his second hand from the control panel. A master of multi-tasking indeed.
Inferno chuckles. “For the record, I'm game.”
“And in case I wasn't clear, so am I,” Blaster says as his chair slides across the floor, bumping into Red Alert's so that they share panel space. “I'll share the load, Red. Enjoy yourself.”
A thin cable spools from Blaster's right forearm, connecting with the control panel, even as his lateral seams part, a bundle of thinner data cables emerging.
Red Alert and Blaster are of different frame-types, so their cables are modified for different functions. Red Alert's for data retrieval and Blaster's for communications. In many ways, Blaster is just as capable of splitting his attention as Red Alert, though his is more along the lines of tracking multiple conversations at once.
The second of Red Alert's cables wind around Optimus' other pede, both of them circling his legs in a steady climb upward until he's immobile from the hips down. He can, if he wants, break free, but not without damaging Red Alert in the process. It's the illusion of immobility that matters.
Optimus looks down just as a thinner cable taps on his chestplate, between his windshields. It ripples at him as though seeking permission.
“Sector Fifteen, clear,” says Red Alert and for a moment, Optimus boggles. Red Alert truly does intend to continue to work, despite the fact the furthest ends of his datacables are caressing every inch of Optimus' abdominal and pelvic plating.
“Roger-dodger, relaying that to security team now,” Blaster contributes and Optimus glances his communications officer's direction. Both of them intend to split their attention?
Color him impressed.
Blaster's smaller cable takes his lack of rejection as permission and slides into a transformation seam between his windshields. It's an interesting sensation to feel that thin cable wriggling along his struts and cables, brushing over sensor nodes on the underside of his armor and on his protoform.
The cable pauses and Optimus can't see what it's doing, but he can feel it. A dozen tiny filaments spiral from the tip, latching onto his protoform with thin tendrils. Optimus shivers as each one latches onto a sensor, directly stimulating it. Which feels... nice actually. More than pleasant.
The tiny burst of electric static that accompanies them, however, is much, much nicer and Optimus tries and fails to stifle a groan. He twitches from helm to pede, moving into a touch that's beneath his armor and invisible to outside viewers. To anyone watching -- Mirage, he guesses -- it would appear he's reacting to nothing.
Optimus moans, torso rattling and hands clenching into fists as he can't move his pedes. Each sensor node sends him an update defining sensation and pressure and the pleasure builds and builds. He sucks in a startled ventilation, jerking and then feels himself tipping backward, unable to correct without use of his legs and pedes.
There's a thunk as he hits something solid behind him, colliding with a chestplate that thrums against his back. Arms come up around him, holding him in place.
“Inferno...?” Optimus assumes aloud.
A deep chuckle echoes in his audial. “Oh, don't mind me,” Inferno replies, hold firm but otherwise chaste. “I'm just the furniture, here for a show.” His hands slide up from Optimus' sides, to his underarms and then up his arms, gradually pulling them up and over Optimus' helm, keeping his torso pinned in much the same manner as his lower half.
Again, it is a hold Optimus can easily break, but with Blaster systematically igniting every sensor in his substructure and Red Alert's cables squeezing his legs in intervals, Optimus finds he doesn't want to.
A moan spills from his vocalizer as Red Alert's cables skirt his inner thighs before brushing his interface panel. Optimus heats up from helm to pede, helm tipping so that he can watch the flexible cable as it prods and slides along his sensitive panels.
“Sector Sixteen, clear,” Red Alert says as the first cable circles Optimus' valve panel over and over again, as though trying to tease him into opening.
“Check and double-check,” Blaster says, his smaller cables spreading further beneath Optimus' armor in a thin web over his substructure. Each filament seems happy to latch onto a sensor node, sending tiny electrical impulses straight into his sensor net.
Optimus' panel snaps open, lubricant dribbling outward as his calipers cycle hungrily. Red Alert's focus seems to be on his monitoring, but there's no denying the intent in his cable as it slides along the dribble of lubricant before wriggling upward.
Red Alert's cable pushes into his valve, smaller than a spike, but warm and conductive, making him eager for more. It pushes deeper, sliding through the lubricant and Optimus' valve clenches down, soaking up every bit of sensation.
And then the connective port spirals open and tiny filaments spiral out, attaching to every one of Optimus' sensory nodes in his valve. It tickles at first, and then he shouts, frame arching as Red Alert does something that makes each and every one of them come to life. Inferno struggles to hold him in place, fingers tightening around his wrists. Optimus shakes, hips moving to their own rhythm, as the pleasure throbs through him.
A second cable joins the first, pushing into his valve and adding to the stretch. Both cables tighten around his legs, further immobilizing him and keeping him open for the steady push-pull into his valve. Optimus can feel the lubricant dripping out of him, slicking his thighs, making a puddle on the floor. He ought to feel embarrassed, but he can't, not when the pleasure shoots through him like a lightning bolt.
Inferno's embrace tightens, shifting his weight to help keep Optimus upright. He's vibrating against Optimus' back, frame expelling heat in soft waves that batter against Optimus' plating. His own vents blast open, fans thrumming as they suck in long draughts of cooler air.
He's going to need to change his filters again at this rate. And Ratchet's going to need to replace a few circuits, top off his fluids, prescribe berth rest...
“Sector Seventeen, clear,” Red Alert says, his vocals droning in the background, beneath the rushing in Optimus' audials.
The two cables pump in and out of his valve in opposing rhythms, the friction between them adding to the friction against his valve walls. Each withdraw sets a light pull against the filaments attached to his sensors that registers as pleasure more than pain. His calipers flutter, unsure whether to cycle down or loosen, and the conflicting sensations make the heat tighten into a desperate coil within Optimus' abdomen.
“Clear as a bell,” Blaster says and an electric impulse comes straight down his cable and into Optimus' substructure.
He writhes within the confines of Red Alert's cables and Inferno's hold, hearing his plating clatter and his vents stutter. His moan overrides the soft beeping of the command console and he feels the lubricant slick down his legs, joining the puddle on the floor.
One of the cables pushes deeper, filling his valve completely and pressing against his retral node. Rather than flicking across it like the motion of a spike, the tip of the cable applies a constant pressure, circling the sensory node over and over and over again. Optimus' legs tremble and he falls harder against Inferno, valve cycling down on the two cables as he feels the overload creeping over him.
He sucks in a stuttered ventilation, optics cutting off, hands drawing into fists. Blaster and Red Alert talk about another sector, but Optimus can't hear the details over his vents, the clattering of his armor, the somehow audible noise of the cables moving through the lubricant of his valve. Every burst of electric impulse from Blaster's cable seems to move straight through his frame to his valve, where Red Alert's cables drive his sensory nodes mad with pleasure.
A sound that has no definition emerges from Optimus' vocalizer as he arches with his overload, entire frame shaking. His valve contracts squeezing down on Red Alert's cables as electricity crawls across his frame in a display that surely lights up the control room. Pleasure ripples through him, overriding his conscious, and it's several long minutes before Optimus comes down from his sensory-overload.
The sound of several cooling fans seems to roar in the command center. Optimus forces his optics back online, finding Blaster half-bent over the main console and Red Alert's helm dipped, hands locked on the arms of his chair. Behind him, Inferno is vibrating, pushing so much heat at Optimus that he can't cool himself down.
The cables in his valve, on his limbs, and buried over his substructure are all trembling, giving stuttered flashes of charge that are less intended to excite as they are unintentional aftershocks.
“S-sector Nineteen,” Red Alert stutters, his vocals laced with static. “C-clear.”
Blaster lets loose a dry laugh that in no way constitutes a legitimate response.
Inferno's forehelm hits the back of Optimus' shoulders as a low chuckle escapes him. “He's determined, that's for sure."
Amusement rises up within Optimus as well, though it's tinged with affection. He has to give Red Alert credit. The mech's field is radiating satisfaction and the buzz of a recent overload but he's gamely watching the primary monitors and keeping the Ark secure.
And, well, Optimus, too. He twitches his legs and flares his plating, bringing attention to the fact he's still restrained.
“Oh, sorry, OP,” Blaster says, still bent over the console as though he can't bring himself to lift up. “Let me just...” he trails off as the filaments of his cables gradually retract from Optimus' substructure, leaving a faint tingling in their wake.
It's nearly enough to rev Optimus all over again. He cycles several careful ventilations, though heat begins to curl lazily within him. One would think he's had enough after a day like today, but it's as if someone has tainted his energon with some kind of arousal-inducing ingredient. He has never known himself to have such a libido before.
Blaster blindly reaches over, prodding Red Alert in a lateral seam. “You, too, Red,” he says. “Prime's getting squirrelly.”
“That's not the word I'd use,” Inferno says, his hands loosening their grip on Optimus, only so that they can start to roam, mapping out the contours of his upper frame and chestplate. “You feel ready for a second round, Prime.”
It's all Optimus can do to keep himself still as Blaster continues to withdraw his sensory cables with agonizing slowness. Red Alert, though lacking a vocal response, begins to unwind his cables as well, leaving a mess of lubricant in his wake and scraping his cables along the inside of Optimus' valve. He shivers.
“Keep that up and I might be,” Optimus declares as Blaster finally manages to push himself upright, cloaking himself in a veil of discipline.
“Sector Nineteen, check,” Blaster says after making a sound not unlike a human clearing his or her throat.
Inferno's amusement buffers at his energy field. “You tempt me, Prime.” His grip slides back to Optimus' hips, holding him still as Red Alert carefully frees Optimus' legs and pedes, granting him freedom of movement.
“Alas, I must return to work,” Optimus says, though he still remembers the emptiness of his desk and the lack of datapads in his inbox.
“No, you have an off-shift all day,” Inferno reminds him, hands giving Optimus' a light squeeze before he steps back, all but setting Optimus back on his own two pedes. “And you should be enjoying every minute of it.”
“Sector Twenty is clear,” Red Alert says, sounding more, well, alert. He lifts his helm, scanning the monitors. “And Inferno's right, sir. You should get your aft out of the command center before the urge to do work overcomes you.”
“As if any of us are going to be thinking of work now,” Blaster says with a laugh, cutting his optics toward Red Alert before adding, “I mean, only thinking of work.” He winks.
Optimus wobbles on his pedes but manages to cling to an air of dignity. “We are fortunate that all of you are so dedicated to keeping us safe.”
Red Alert waves a cable at him, the tip of it glistening with lubricant. “Yes, yes. Now begone with you, Optimus. We have work to do and you have fun to enjoy.” He says 'fun' with the same sort of distaste most Autobots use in referring to Decepticons. Though it's hard to take him seriously with the scent of ozone so thick in the air and the pool of lubricant beneath Optimus.
He gives said pool a look and gingerly steps around it. “Command received,” Optimus says and backs toward the exit.
He watches as Red Alert snaps at Blaster to get back to work, even as a cleaning drone putters out from beneath the console to attend to the mess. Inferno chuckles to himself, pulling a cloth from subspace to wipe himself down and Blaster gives a heavy sigh of resignation as he relays the newly cleared sectors to whomever is on perimeter patrol.
Business as usual. Just like that.
a/n: I may, possibly, be having more fun writing these than is socially acceptable. :D
Inferno, Red Alert, and Blaster are three characters I rarely write so they are possibly a little OOC but it's all in the name of slightly cracky porn so I hope that can be excused.
I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is always welcome and appreciated.
Coming up next, Optimus heeds Inferno's advice and wanders to the training arena and stumbles upon another public display to which he is, of course, invited. Stay tuned!
