[G1] With Benefits - Part Nine
Jun. 14th, 2014 05:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Another NSFW installment of my pronzy, kinky series. Self-beta'd. And enjoy!
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 Nine: Chain of Command
Characters: ProwlxIronhidexRatchetxJazzxOptimus
Enticements: Sticky, Tactile, PNP, Spark, Double Penetration, Blindfolds
It is an exhausted but satisfied Optimus who finally stumbles out of Perceptor's laboratory hours later, several copies of their “research” in his memory banks and more than a few blown circuits. Oh, they'll self-repair over night so there is no need to go to Ratchet to get them replaced, but he's feeling the strain of so many overloads in such a short period of time.
He leaves most of his scientific staff in a sated heap of heated plating around their wildly successful new invention and makes for his personal quarters. It's early yet, but according to Red Alert and nearly every other mech he's run into today, Optimus is on leave. Therefore, if he wants to retire early and get more recharge than he's had in years, then by Primus, he can.
He swings by the refueling station for some energon, noticing that the Ark is finally occupied again when it had been oddly empty earlier. He passes Smokescreen and Bluestreak in the halls, who grin at him and jostle each other with their elbows. There's a small gang of minibots in the corner of the rec room and Tracks and Sunstreaker are in some sort of heated debate in another corner. Hound and Mirage and Blaster are playing a card game at one table.
Optimus is greeted with a chorus of waves and smiles and no one seems the least bit affected by what's happened over the course of the day. It's as though Optimus dreamed the whole thing, and he's just now waking from it.
Odd.
He does notice, however, that several bots have yet to make an appearance. Most notably, with the exception of Jazz, his command staff.
Even more curious.
Optimus gathers a cube of energon in peace, bids a farewell to his Autobots, and heads back to his quarters. He briefly contemplates taking a drive to enjoy the countryside, but honestly, that sounds like effort he's not willing to expend. Perhaps another time. He thinks of the datapads at his berthside, that he hasn't touched in months because he's always had work to do, and wonders if now might be the time to finally finish that story.
The command hall is silent as Optimus arrives at his door and keys it open, stepping inside as he sips on his energon.
He comes to a startled halt in the doorway to find that his quarters are already occupied. Prowl is perched in the chair at his desk, browsing a datapad, while Ratchet and Ironhide are sprawled on his berth.
Well, that explains where his command staff has disappeared to.
Optimus opens his mouth to speak when a light shove from behind pushes him further into the room. The door shuts behind him and before he can turn to look, Jazz steps into view, grinning cheekily.
He should have known.
“Have you been hiding here all day?” Optimus asks as he gains the attention of his senior command staff.
“Not hiding,” Prowl corrects, switching off the datapad and laying it aside, his doorwings twitching with something like mischief as he stands. “Waiting.”
Optimus arches an orbital ridge. “For?”
“You, ya dimwit,” Ratchet says with a huff, rolling his optics. “What? Did you really think we'd all decided to take a day off at once?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” Optimus admits, only to look at Jazz with suspicion. “Though as the day wore on, I began to suspect something of a different nature was occurring.”
Jazz rocks on his pedes. “I have no idea to what you are referring.” His grin completely belies his projected innocence.
“So says the mech who's made sure to have two turns,” Ironhide says with a pointed look at Jazz who doesn't look the least bit contrite about it.
“Can you blame me?” Jazz asks.
“All the time,” Ratchet drawls and pats the berth as Ironhide shifts aside, making room between them. “Come on, Optimus. We saved you a spot.”
Amused, Optimus crosses the floor and takes them up on the invitation. “I don't think my berth is big enough for the three of us.”
“We'll make do,” Ironhide says. “You can bet Prowl's already worked out the logistics in that tactical helm of his.”
Prowl huffs. “You talk about tactics as though they are something to be disdained. Not every matter can be solved with a blaster, Ironhide.”
“Ah, ah, my mechs,” Jazz says, dancing his way between the two, who sometimes find themselves at odds. “We all have our parts to play and rehashing old arguments ain't part of it.”
“Parts?” Optimus asks as he watches Prowl and Ironhide grumble something like an apology and redirect their attention to Optimus. Not that the discussion has been forgotten. Optimus knows it has only been temporarily pushed aside.
“We originally had a plan,” Ratchet says, leaning against Optimus and sharing field harmonics. “Then we realized you might have your own idea of what you want so we thought we'd ask.”
Optimus raises his orbital ridges. “What I want,” he repeats, optics skipping from one mech to another. “It's hard to imagine I might need anything else after today.”
Jazz grins, sliding up to Optimus and bullying his way between Optimus' knees. “Let's make it easy then,” he says, hands sliding up Optimus' thighs in a slow, sensual motion. “We'll start with touch.”
Optimus' engine rumbles. “That sounds like a workable tactic. Don't you agree, Prowl?”
The Praxian jerks his helm in a nod, crossing the floor to close the distance between himself and the berth, making Optimus surrounded by his command staff and all the happier for it. “Divide and conquer is always an option as well,” he says.
“I approve of that,” Ironhide says, shifting on the berth to cup a hand around Optimus' helm and draw him into a deep, lusty kiss.
It becomes a blur after that. Four pairs of hands descend upon him, and only by concentrating can he really tell who's doing what. And concentrating is the last thing he wants to do right now. It's nice, Optimus thinks, to drown in pleasure.
Someone's hands stroke his armor. Someone else teases his interface panels, feeling the heat behind them. Ironhide never lets up his demanding kiss and Optimus is keen on letting him, moaning into the slick glossa. The berth rumbles and creaks beneath their combined engines and weight.
Optimus feels himself being bore down to the berth, but someone is behind him, cradling his weight. He suspects Ratchet given the size of the mech, but the energy fields pressing down on him are dizzying. Again, with concentration, he can pick them apart. But why bother when all four are pulsing the same thing: affection, desire, lust, pleasure.
A mouth attacks his audials, his antennae and Optimus moans, sensor net bursting with pleasure. He pushes back against Ratchet, feeling the slide of fine-tuned medic's hands over his armor, followed by a magnetic pulse that sets his sensors alight. He writhes, trapped between Ratchet's bulk and Ironhide's mouth and someone's hands on his abdomen and between his thighs, stroking his interface panel.
Fingers tickle at his lateral seams, tracing the contours of the panel guarding his lateral port. Skill and knowledge manually pops the panel and the fingers pause, as though waiting for Optimus to protest, before a plug is introduced, clicking home with a processor-surging pleasure. This, Optimus recognizes, is definitely Ratchet. There's no confusing the confident trickle of the medic's awareness, and the wave of arousal Ratchet brings with him.
Optimus' engine purrs with delight as a second hand teases his left lateral seam, silently requesting access that Optimus is eager to grant. The connecting cable identifies his second partner as Prowl, who digitally requests permission before sliding into Optimus' systems alongside Ratchet.
Their desire runs parallel, simmering the pleasure to a slow burn, and Optimus rumbles his approval. He reaches out to them with his own sense of self, trading pleasure wave for wave, feeling the static erupt from his substructure and dance across his armor.
Ironhide's mouth leaves his, trailing down to nip at his throat. The hand at Optimus' panel strokes more firmly, fingers deftly stroking him until his panels pop and his spike pressurizes eagerly while his valve bares itself to a warm waft of air. Optimus shivers as fingers take advantage, pressing into him at once, sliding through lubricant and caressing the sensors at the inner rim of his valve.
He sucks in a startled ventilation, arching between the frames surrounding him, feeling Ratchet's amusement and Prowl's appreciation across the link.
A third finger joins the two and then a fourth, pumping into his valve with an audible squelch of lubricant. Someone else's hand wraps around his spike, giving it a long, slow pull and Optimus hums his pleasure. His optics flicker, unsure whether to stay lit or not, until he offlines them in total deference to the affections of his command staff.
The berth trembles as Ironhide's mouth vanishes from his throat column. Optimus whimpers the loss as the fingers disappear from his valve as well. But then hands smooth down his legs, a frame nudges between his thighs, and Optimus cants his hips upward in expectation. A spike slides into his valve, ribbed around the circumference and raking across every sensor in the lining.
Optimus moans, frame arching, hands reaching out to drag his partner closer. His fingers scrabble over battle-grade armor and he just knows that it is Ironhide pushing into his valve, teasing him with the slow, steady thrust. He hears a low-rumbling laugh of appreciation before Ironhide's mouth covers his again, muffling his cries of pleasure.
Amusement draws his attention to Ratchet, followed by the surge of lust across their connection. Optimus traces the desire and whimpers as a stream of images attacks his cortex with a bright burst of lust. He feels Ratchet rock against his aft, spike sliding along his plating and leaving a streak of lubricant behind as the dizzying scenes coalesce into one clear and attractive proposal.
Optimus' internals squirm with want. His valve clenches down on Ironhide's, already imagining the stretch of a second spike, and Ratchet's arousal pours down the link. A surge of need comes from Prowl, who in true Prowl-fashion, attaches an action plan for how they all can go about accommodating each other.
Optimus would be amused if he wasn't so focused on the pleasure making him tremble from helm to pede. He knows Ratchet is behind him and Ironhide in front of him and Prowl to his left, and he knows Jazz is somewhere because the bright spark of his field is tangible against Optimus' own.
And there are hands on his hips, probably Ratchet's, and the teasing brush of a spike against the rim of his valve. Ratchet's spike slides against Ironhide's, prompting an engine rev and Optimus tilts his hips in encouragement. Then there are more hands, adjusting, turning, lifting one of his legs, opening him further.
Ironhide's spike vanishes and Optimus mourns the loss, but then the blunt pressure of two spikes appears at his valve. Optimus' ventilations hitch, heat blasting from his frame as they start to push in together, stretching the calipers of his valve and causing every sensor to fire with stimulation.
Optimus reaches out, needing something to ground himself, and gets a hold of Prowl's shoulder with his left hand and what is probably Ironhide's hand with his right. He cycles his optics, intending to online them, but then a hand lands over his face, shielding his optics.
“None of that now,” Ratchet says, right into his audial, more a purr than a chastisement.
“Focus on the pleasure, Prime. Nothing else.”
“Unless you have a better idea for what you want,” Ironhide adds, giving Optimus' hand a quick squeeze. “In which case, speak up. We'd love to hear it.”
“This is, after all, for your benefit,” Prowl says. “You are welcome to voice your desires.”
“And if you don't, we'll just keep on doin' what we're doin' until you offline from the pleasure,” Jazz drawls and the hand that drags down Optimus' chestplate and abdomen has to belong to the saboteur.
“Sounds good to me,” Optimus gasps out as another trill of pleasure dances through his sensor net and the spikes in his valve stretch him to the point of fullness that edges pain and settles into pure bliss.
Amusement rumbles across the link and Ratchet feels like a furnace against his back. Prowl's presence dances through their link and it's like he's touching Optimus from the inside, lighting up his sensors. Charge crackles out from Optimus' substructure and he's sure it is coursing over his armor, not that he can see it.
The presence in his valve shifts, a minute inch but utterly tangible. Optimus moans as his sensor net spark to life, feeling the two spikes move in bare counterpoint. It's a slow and steady pace that feels designed to ignite a fire inside of him. It's working.
His vents open full bore, pouring heat into the room. His exterior sensors register a definite increase in the ambient temperature in the room, which is almost amusing to Optimus.
Pleasure blurs again, to the point where Optimus can't decide which grabs his attention more. The spikes in his valve, shifting slow and slow, lubricant leaking out and soaking everything beneath him. Or the two systems connected to his, sending a steady stream of arousal and desire and erotic images that titillate the senses. Or the agile fingers tracing his seams and stroking the heated wires beneath. Or Ratchet rumbling at his back, sending the vibrations all the way through Optimus' frame.
And then the berth rattles, sending an ominous groan echoing through his quarters. Prowl's exasperation translates across the link and a chorus of sighs announce a singular perpetrator.
Jazz.
“Share and share alike, my mechs,” the saboteur says with what is perhaps one of his trademark smiles and flash of his visor.
A weight settles on Optimus' chassis, hands sliding up his abdominal armor and over his windshields before hooking on his shoulders.
The berth creaks a little louder. Optimus wonders if it will hold up under the weight. Otherwise they might all receive a rather abrupt distraction.
“Lucky you're so big,” Jazz says with a little laugh, his hips twitching atop Optimus' with a lovely skreel of metal on metal. “Otherwise, this might be awkward.”
“You mean it's not already?” Ironhide grumbles, his hand releasing Optimus' and relocating to Optimus' hip. His spike has slipped from Optimus' valve but with another creak of the berth, it slides snugly back into place, notching alongside Ratchet's. Surely the medic must feel a little compressed right now, but he's not complaining.
“You're worse than the twins, I swear to Primus,” Prowl says.
“I suppose I'll take that as a compliment,” Jazz retorts and Optimus feels his weight shift before hot armor lays against his front. He can feel the humming of Jazz's frame, trembling with need before Jazz presses a quick kiss to his lips. “Want your spark. Do you mind?”
Optimus' answer is to crack his chestplates, the first tendrils of his spark already reaching out in need. Of all the affection he's received today, no one's asked for his spark and he's been aching for it. The physical pleasure is wonderful and processor-blowing and relaxing, but the intimacy of a spark merge is a craving that can't be sated by his spike and valve.
He wraps his one free arm around Jazz's back, keeping the mech's chest armor pressed to his own. “Please,” Optimus says and there's no denying the need in his vocals or the charge licking across his armor.
Ratchet shudders behind him and he can feel Prowl's arousal cycling higher. Ironhide's spike is a fierce throb in his valve, and Optimus' own spike pulses in its housing. He sees no reason for restraint and lets it free, moaning as fingers instantly encircle his spike, giving him a squeeze.
Optimus writhes on the berth, in as much space as is available to him, hearing the berth creak and groan, but hold up. Props to Grapple, he thinks.
And then he hears the distinct click-shift of another chestplate sliding aside and the first answering tendrils of Jazz's spark brushes against his own. Optimus gasps, chassis pushing upward, seeking more of Jazz's spark and keening when he gets it. Sound rushes through his audials and with Ratchet's hand keeping him blind, he can't do anything but focus on the pleasure. The throb of Jazz's spark against his own, the teasing brush of each spark tendril and the charge that licks between them, bouncing back and forth and lighting up his sensor net with pleasure.
His arm wraps around Jazz, crushing the saboteur against him. He can feel his own armor rattling, the heat rising from his frame in blasting vents, his valve cycling down tight against the two spikes. Overload builds within him, swelling higher and tighter as Jazz's spark dances against his. Optimus' engine rumbles, his thighs trembling around Ironhide, charge spilling across his cables, and something that can best be described as a wail erupting from his vocalizer.
Overload strikes him hard, roaring through his systems, surging in his spark until it feels too large for it's chamber, erupting in a wave of charge that spills over his frame and into his partners. Optimus shakes and moans, now both arms tightening around Jazz, his spark flaring and dragging Jazz into overload with him. The burst of several energy fields reassures him that he's pulling the others into overload as well and the pleasure that realization brings dances through Optimus' processor.
It's the last thing he registers before exhaustion takes control and his frame, still humming from the powerful overload, slides into the blissful grey of recharge. For once, Optimus goes under willingly.
Ratchet would be so proud of him.
***
a/n: Part Ten is a short, follow-up epilogue that explains just why Optimus got the good lovin' today. Not that the Autobots really need a reason. ;)
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
And I am working on the flash fiction. I've got two fully complete, two halfway done, and one in the musing stage. They should be up in increments starting Monday. I promise.
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 Nine: Chain of Command
Characters: ProwlxIronhidexRatchetxJazzxOptimus
Enticements: Sticky, Tactile, PNP, Spark, Double Penetration, Blindfolds
It is an exhausted but satisfied Optimus who finally stumbles out of Perceptor's laboratory hours later, several copies of their “research” in his memory banks and more than a few blown circuits. Oh, they'll self-repair over night so there is no need to go to Ratchet to get them replaced, but he's feeling the strain of so many overloads in such a short period of time.
He leaves most of his scientific staff in a sated heap of heated plating around their wildly successful new invention and makes for his personal quarters. It's early yet, but according to Red Alert and nearly every other mech he's run into today, Optimus is on leave. Therefore, if he wants to retire early and get more recharge than he's had in years, then by Primus, he can.
He swings by the refueling station for some energon, noticing that the Ark is finally occupied again when it had been oddly empty earlier. He passes Smokescreen and Bluestreak in the halls, who grin at him and jostle each other with their elbows. There's a small gang of minibots in the corner of the rec room and Tracks and Sunstreaker are in some sort of heated debate in another corner. Hound and Mirage and Blaster are playing a card game at one table.
Optimus is greeted with a chorus of waves and smiles and no one seems the least bit affected by what's happened over the course of the day. It's as though Optimus dreamed the whole thing, and he's just now waking from it.
Odd.
He does notice, however, that several bots have yet to make an appearance. Most notably, with the exception of Jazz, his command staff.
Even more curious.
Optimus gathers a cube of energon in peace, bids a farewell to his Autobots, and heads back to his quarters. He briefly contemplates taking a drive to enjoy the countryside, but honestly, that sounds like effort he's not willing to expend. Perhaps another time. He thinks of the datapads at his berthside, that he hasn't touched in months because he's always had work to do, and wonders if now might be the time to finally finish that story.
The command hall is silent as Optimus arrives at his door and keys it open, stepping inside as he sips on his energon.
He comes to a startled halt in the doorway to find that his quarters are already occupied. Prowl is perched in the chair at his desk, browsing a datapad, while Ratchet and Ironhide are sprawled on his berth.
Well, that explains where his command staff has disappeared to.
Optimus opens his mouth to speak when a light shove from behind pushes him further into the room. The door shuts behind him and before he can turn to look, Jazz steps into view, grinning cheekily.
He should have known.
“Have you been hiding here all day?” Optimus asks as he gains the attention of his senior command staff.
“Not hiding,” Prowl corrects, switching off the datapad and laying it aside, his doorwings twitching with something like mischief as he stands. “Waiting.”
Optimus arches an orbital ridge. “For?”
“You, ya dimwit,” Ratchet says with a huff, rolling his optics. “What? Did you really think we'd all decided to take a day off at once?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” Optimus admits, only to look at Jazz with suspicion. “Though as the day wore on, I began to suspect something of a different nature was occurring.”
Jazz rocks on his pedes. “I have no idea to what you are referring.” His grin completely belies his projected innocence.
“So says the mech who's made sure to have two turns,” Ironhide says with a pointed look at Jazz who doesn't look the least bit contrite about it.
“Can you blame me?” Jazz asks.
“All the time,” Ratchet drawls and pats the berth as Ironhide shifts aside, making room between them. “Come on, Optimus. We saved you a spot.”
Amused, Optimus crosses the floor and takes them up on the invitation. “I don't think my berth is big enough for the three of us.”
“We'll make do,” Ironhide says. “You can bet Prowl's already worked out the logistics in that tactical helm of his.”
Prowl huffs. “You talk about tactics as though they are something to be disdained. Not every matter can be solved with a blaster, Ironhide.”
“Ah, ah, my mechs,” Jazz says, dancing his way between the two, who sometimes find themselves at odds. “We all have our parts to play and rehashing old arguments ain't part of it.”
“Parts?” Optimus asks as he watches Prowl and Ironhide grumble something like an apology and redirect their attention to Optimus. Not that the discussion has been forgotten. Optimus knows it has only been temporarily pushed aside.
“We originally had a plan,” Ratchet says, leaning against Optimus and sharing field harmonics. “Then we realized you might have your own idea of what you want so we thought we'd ask.”
Optimus raises his orbital ridges. “What I want,” he repeats, optics skipping from one mech to another. “It's hard to imagine I might need anything else after today.”
Jazz grins, sliding up to Optimus and bullying his way between Optimus' knees. “Let's make it easy then,” he says, hands sliding up Optimus' thighs in a slow, sensual motion. “We'll start with touch.”
Optimus' engine rumbles. “That sounds like a workable tactic. Don't you agree, Prowl?”
The Praxian jerks his helm in a nod, crossing the floor to close the distance between himself and the berth, making Optimus surrounded by his command staff and all the happier for it. “Divide and conquer is always an option as well,” he says.
“I approve of that,” Ironhide says, shifting on the berth to cup a hand around Optimus' helm and draw him into a deep, lusty kiss.
It becomes a blur after that. Four pairs of hands descend upon him, and only by concentrating can he really tell who's doing what. And concentrating is the last thing he wants to do right now. It's nice, Optimus thinks, to drown in pleasure.
Someone's hands stroke his armor. Someone else teases his interface panels, feeling the heat behind them. Ironhide never lets up his demanding kiss and Optimus is keen on letting him, moaning into the slick glossa. The berth rumbles and creaks beneath their combined engines and weight.
Optimus feels himself being bore down to the berth, but someone is behind him, cradling his weight. He suspects Ratchet given the size of the mech, but the energy fields pressing down on him are dizzying. Again, with concentration, he can pick them apart. But why bother when all four are pulsing the same thing: affection, desire, lust, pleasure.
A mouth attacks his audials, his antennae and Optimus moans, sensor net bursting with pleasure. He pushes back against Ratchet, feeling the slide of fine-tuned medic's hands over his armor, followed by a magnetic pulse that sets his sensors alight. He writhes, trapped between Ratchet's bulk and Ironhide's mouth and someone's hands on his abdomen and between his thighs, stroking his interface panel.
Fingers tickle at his lateral seams, tracing the contours of the panel guarding his lateral port. Skill and knowledge manually pops the panel and the fingers pause, as though waiting for Optimus to protest, before a plug is introduced, clicking home with a processor-surging pleasure. This, Optimus recognizes, is definitely Ratchet. There's no confusing the confident trickle of the medic's awareness, and the wave of arousal Ratchet brings with him.
Optimus' engine purrs with delight as a second hand teases his left lateral seam, silently requesting access that Optimus is eager to grant. The connecting cable identifies his second partner as Prowl, who digitally requests permission before sliding into Optimus' systems alongside Ratchet.
Their desire runs parallel, simmering the pleasure to a slow burn, and Optimus rumbles his approval. He reaches out to them with his own sense of self, trading pleasure wave for wave, feeling the static erupt from his substructure and dance across his armor.
Ironhide's mouth leaves his, trailing down to nip at his throat. The hand at Optimus' panel strokes more firmly, fingers deftly stroking him until his panels pop and his spike pressurizes eagerly while his valve bares itself to a warm waft of air. Optimus shivers as fingers take advantage, pressing into him at once, sliding through lubricant and caressing the sensors at the inner rim of his valve.
He sucks in a startled ventilation, arching between the frames surrounding him, feeling Ratchet's amusement and Prowl's appreciation across the link.
A third finger joins the two and then a fourth, pumping into his valve with an audible squelch of lubricant. Someone else's hand wraps around his spike, giving it a long, slow pull and Optimus hums his pleasure. His optics flicker, unsure whether to stay lit or not, until he offlines them in total deference to the affections of his command staff.
The berth trembles as Ironhide's mouth vanishes from his throat column. Optimus whimpers the loss as the fingers disappear from his valve as well. But then hands smooth down his legs, a frame nudges between his thighs, and Optimus cants his hips upward in expectation. A spike slides into his valve, ribbed around the circumference and raking across every sensor in the lining.
Optimus moans, frame arching, hands reaching out to drag his partner closer. His fingers scrabble over battle-grade armor and he just knows that it is Ironhide pushing into his valve, teasing him with the slow, steady thrust. He hears a low-rumbling laugh of appreciation before Ironhide's mouth covers his again, muffling his cries of pleasure.
Amusement draws his attention to Ratchet, followed by the surge of lust across their connection. Optimus traces the desire and whimpers as a stream of images attacks his cortex with a bright burst of lust. He feels Ratchet rock against his aft, spike sliding along his plating and leaving a streak of lubricant behind as the dizzying scenes coalesce into one clear and attractive proposal.
Optimus' internals squirm with want. His valve clenches down on Ironhide's, already imagining the stretch of a second spike, and Ratchet's arousal pours down the link. A surge of need comes from Prowl, who in true Prowl-fashion, attaches an action plan for how they all can go about accommodating each other.
Optimus would be amused if he wasn't so focused on the pleasure making him tremble from helm to pede. He knows Ratchet is behind him and Ironhide in front of him and Prowl to his left, and he knows Jazz is somewhere because the bright spark of his field is tangible against Optimus' own.
And there are hands on his hips, probably Ratchet's, and the teasing brush of a spike against the rim of his valve. Ratchet's spike slides against Ironhide's, prompting an engine rev and Optimus tilts his hips in encouragement. Then there are more hands, adjusting, turning, lifting one of his legs, opening him further.
Ironhide's spike vanishes and Optimus mourns the loss, but then the blunt pressure of two spikes appears at his valve. Optimus' ventilations hitch, heat blasting from his frame as they start to push in together, stretching the calipers of his valve and causing every sensor to fire with stimulation.
Optimus reaches out, needing something to ground himself, and gets a hold of Prowl's shoulder with his left hand and what is probably Ironhide's hand with his right. He cycles his optics, intending to online them, but then a hand lands over his face, shielding his optics.
“None of that now,” Ratchet says, right into his audial, more a purr than a chastisement.
“Focus on the pleasure, Prime. Nothing else.”
“Unless you have a better idea for what you want,” Ironhide adds, giving Optimus' hand a quick squeeze. “In which case, speak up. We'd love to hear it.”
“This is, after all, for your benefit,” Prowl says. “You are welcome to voice your desires.”
“And if you don't, we'll just keep on doin' what we're doin' until you offline from the pleasure,” Jazz drawls and the hand that drags down Optimus' chestplate and abdomen has to belong to the saboteur.
“Sounds good to me,” Optimus gasps out as another trill of pleasure dances through his sensor net and the spikes in his valve stretch him to the point of fullness that edges pain and settles into pure bliss.
Amusement rumbles across the link and Ratchet feels like a furnace against his back. Prowl's presence dances through their link and it's like he's touching Optimus from the inside, lighting up his sensors. Charge crackles out from Optimus' substructure and he's sure it is coursing over his armor, not that he can see it.
The presence in his valve shifts, a minute inch but utterly tangible. Optimus moans as his sensor net spark to life, feeling the two spikes move in bare counterpoint. It's a slow and steady pace that feels designed to ignite a fire inside of him. It's working.
His vents open full bore, pouring heat into the room. His exterior sensors register a definite increase in the ambient temperature in the room, which is almost amusing to Optimus.
Pleasure blurs again, to the point where Optimus can't decide which grabs his attention more. The spikes in his valve, shifting slow and slow, lubricant leaking out and soaking everything beneath him. Or the two systems connected to his, sending a steady stream of arousal and desire and erotic images that titillate the senses. Or the agile fingers tracing his seams and stroking the heated wires beneath. Or Ratchet rumbling at his back, sending the vibrations all the way through Optimus' frame.
And then the berth rattles, sending an ominous groan echoing through his quarters. Prowl's exasperation translates across the link and a chorus of sighs announce a singular perpetrator.
Jazz.
“Share and share alike, my mechs,” the saboteur says with what is perhaps one of his trademark smiles and flash of his visor.
A weight settles on Optimus' chassis, hands sliding up his abdominal armor and over his windshields before hooking on his shoulders.
The berth creaks a little louder. Optimus wonders if it will hold up under the weight. Otherwise they might all receive a rather abrupt distraction.
“Lucky you're so big,” Jazz says with a little laugh, his hips twitching atop Optimus' with a lovely skreel of metal on metal. “Otherwise, this might be awkward.”
“You mean it's not already?” Ironhide grumbles, his hand releasing Optimus' and relocating to Optimus' hip. His spike has slipped from Optimus' valve but with another creak of the berth, it slides snugly back into place, notching alongside Ratchet's. Surely the medic must feel a little compressed right now, but he's not complaining.
“You're worse than the twins, I swear to Primus,” Prowl says.
“I suppose I'll take that as a compliment,” Jazz retorts and Optimus feels his weight shift before hot armor lays against his front. He can feel the humming of Jazz's frame, trembling with need before Jazz presses a quick kiss to his lips. “Want your spark. Do you mind?”
Optimus' answer is to crack his chestplates, the first tendrils of his spark already reaching out in need. Of all the affection he's received today, no one's asked for his spark and he's been aching for it. The physical pleasure is wonderful and processor-blowing and relaxing, but the intimacy of a spark merge is a craving that can't be sated by his spike and valve.
He wraps his one free arm around Jazz's back, keeping the mech's chest armor pressed to his own. “Please,” Optimus says and there's no denying the need in his vocals or the charge licking across his armor.
Ratchet shudders behind him and he can feel Prowl's arousal cycling higher. Ironhide's spike is a fierce throb in his valve, and Optimus' own spike pulses in its housing. He sees no reason for restraint and lets it free, moaning as fingers instantly encircle his spike, giving him a squeeze.
Optimus writhes on the berth, in as much space as is available to him, hearing the berth creak and groan, but hold up. Props to Grapple, he thinks.
And then he hears the distinct click-shift of another chestplate sliding aside and the first answering tendrils of Jazz's spark brushes against his own. Optimus gasps, chassis pushing upward, seeking more of Jazz's spark and keening when he gets it. Sound rushes through his audials and with Ratchet's hand keeping him blind, he can't do anything but focus on the pleasure. The throb of Jazz's spark against his own, the teasing brush of each spark tendril and the charge that licks between them, bouncing back and forth and lighting up his sensor net with pleasure.
His arm wraps around Jazz, crushing the saboteur against him. He can feel his own armor rattling, the heat rising from his frame in blasting vents, his valve cycling down tight against the two spikes. Overload builds within him, swelling higher and tighter as Jazz's spark dances against his. Optimus' engine rumbles, his thighs trembling around Ironhide, charge spilling across his cables, and something that can best be described as a wail erupting from his vocalizer.
Overload strikes him hard, roaring through his systems, surging in his spark until it feels too large for it's chamber, erupting in a wave of charge that spills over his frame and into his partners. Optimus shakes and moans, now both arms tightening around Jazz, his spark flaring and dragging Jazz into overload with him. The burst of several energy fields reassures him that he's pulling the others into overload as well and the pleasure that realization brings dances through Optimus' processor.
It's the last thing he registers before exhaustion takes control and his frame, still humming from the powerful overload, slides into the blissful grey of recharge. For once, Optimus goes under willingly.
Ratchet would be so proud of him.
a/n: Part Ten is a short, follow-up epilogue that explains just why Optimus got the good lovin' today. Not that the Autobots really need a reason. ;)
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
And I am working on the flash fiction. I've got two fully complete, two halfway done, and one in the musing stage. They should be up in increments starting Monday. I promise.
