[G1] With Benefits - Part Four
a/n: I have never written any of the minibots before so I will warn you in advance that they may be slightly OOC. Also, this fic went just a little cracky because the minis started sniping at each other and Gears wouldn't stop complaining and it got too funny to take seriously. Ahem.
Still, I hope you enjoy. and this is NSFW.
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 Four: Hook Me Up
Characters: OptimusxGearsxBrawnxCliffjumperxPowerglidexHufferxWindcharger
Enticements: bit o' crack, slight ooc?, p'n'p, orgy, public sex
Systems humming and a languid comfort thrumming through his frame, Optimus heads to the rec room, tanks pinging a need for energon. He also receives a notification of a new message. Suspecting it is merely a query from Prowl regarding his tardiness, Optimus pulls out his datapad and keys open the communication.
No. Not from Prowl at all.
It's another video, this time of his recent excursion into Tracks' quarters. He marvels at the quality of it, and doesn't even have to look to know who sent it. Mirage. The noble spy is certainly sneaking his way around the Ark today.
Chuckling to himself, Optimus saves the file and stows his datapad for future reference. He is gaining quite the collection of erotic videos. He'll have to thank Mirage later.
He turns into the rec room, quickly surveying the current visitors. For this time of day, it is strangely empty, not unlike the halls. The only Autobots present are a gaggle of minibots at the largest table on the far side.
“Good morning, Prime!” Windcharger chirps.
“Morning,” all of the others chorus in various tones from cheerful (Powerglide) to downright dour (Huffer).
“Going to rain today,” Gears adds, always the bright ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. “Would you call that a good morning?”
Optimus returns their greeting, ignores Gears' rhetorical statement, and proceeds to the dispensary. He draws himself a cube of midgrade, checks his chronometer, and finds that he is, at this point, late. Might as well make it fashionable he tells himself, and consumes his energon in several thick swallows, his tanks pinging him with satisfaction and a restoration of adequate energy levels.
He debates drawing another cube, if only to have something to stash in his subspace, when a surly voice interrupts his pondering.
“Found one,” said voice announces, or rather, declares unenthusiastically.
Optimus looks down, confused, to find Huffer standing in front of him, peering at his right thigh in interest. “I beg your pardon?”
“Found another,” someone else says, voice much cheerier and with greater exuberance.
Optimus' helm swings to the left, where Windcharger is standing by his left leg, grinning most triumphantly.
“There's a third!” Powerglide exclaims out of nowhere, nearly startling Optimus as he reaches up and taps the Prime's right arm.
“And this makes four,” Brawn adds, leaning around Windcharger to peer closely at Optimus' left arm. “I think.”
“I hate games,” Gears grumbles as he stomps around them all until he stands in front of Optimus. “All right,” he declares, planting his hands on his hips and staring balefully up at Optimus. “Where are the rest of them?”
Optimus cycles his optics. “The rest of what?”
“There's one right here, too,” says Cliffjumper from somewhere behind Optimus, and he isn't certain where until a light touch brushes across the base of his spinal strut. “Awkward, but doable.”
Confusion reaches a crescendo. “What on Earth are you talking about?” Optimus demands, entirely bewildered.
“I like this one,” Windcharger says with a smile and completely ignoring Optimus' question. It is like the minibots are having a conversation and he hasn't been invited, despite being the topic du jour.
“Might as well claim what we found. It's easier that way,” Huffer mutters and gives the most put-upon sigh Optimus has ever heard. “Guess I'm stuck with the other leg. Figures.”
“I still haven't found one!” Gears protests, stomping a pede in an action Optimus has only seen Earth children use. “Someone help me out.”
“What in Primus' name are you looking for?” Optimus demands, optics swinging from one minibot to the next, save for Cliffjumper who is still behind him.
Brawn rolls his shoulders. “Ports,” he answers in a clipped tone. “You have a lot of them. And more processing power than all the mechs on the Ark. Cept maybe Prowl. Or Red Alert.”
“So we figured you're the only one who could link us,” Windcharger says with a wolfish grin, his field reaching out with a soft caress. “All of us.”
Optimus' optics cycle wider in disbelief. “You want to...?”
“Set up a hub?” Powerglide finishes for him. “Yep. Think you can do it?”
It's not a matter of capability, Optimus thinks. He does have numerous ports, at least three times as many as the average Cybertronian, which is more than enough for the current minibot horde. And trying to manage six different datastreams, well, it's not unlike the sort of datawork he did while helping manage the docks.
But still...
“Of course he can do it!” Cliffjumper snaps, as though personally offended that Optimus' interfacing prowess has been called into question.
“He doesn't want to do it,” Gears mutters. “No one ever wants to do it.”
Huffer throws up his hands. “All of this charge and nowhere to put it,” he says with great lament. “How disappointing.”
“Hold on a minute!” Windcharger says with a firm look to his brethren. “He didn't say no. Right?”
Five pairs of optics turn up at him with curious, pleading looks. He can only assume that Cliffjumper is giving him the same.
“Not exactly,” Optimus begins, knowing he must be careful to choose his words, but the rest of what he planned to say gets lost in a raucous cheering of success. Well, not so much from Huffer and Gears, but the others seem relatively pleased.
“We've been wanting to try this for ages,” Powerglide says with a flutter of his wings. “Too bad Comber's gonna miss it.”
“Beachcomber has other plans, remember?” Windcharger retorts, giving the flier a hard look.
Huffer revs his engine. “Beachcomber has all the fun.”
“Gentlemechs,” Optimus says, a bit loudly to get their attention. “I appreciate the offer, but I am late for my shift. Perhaps another time...?”
He trails off as he is treated to what is quite possibly five of the most crestfallen and disappointed expressions he has ever seen on the face of an Autobot. They put Bluestreak's puppy optics to shame.
“And this is hardly the place,” Optimus adds, with a pointed look around them. Not only is the rec room public, but well, they would impede others if they caused a scene.
“I told you,” Gears says. “We should have never bothered to try.”
“It's because we're minibots, isn't it?” Huffer demands.
“I managed a three-way connect once,” Windcharger murmurs, vocals full of nostalgia. “Never overloaded so hard in all my functioning.”
“It was worth a shot,” Powerglide adds with a roll of his shoulders.
Cliffjumper huffs a ventilation, crossing his arm. “And what's wrong with the rec room anyway? Just last week Smokescreen was bending Sunstreaker backward over the dispenser!”
“I couldn't get any energon,” Gears grumps. “I almost offlined for lack of refueling.”
Hmm. Cliffjumper does have a point. His Autobots have been noticeably slack when it comes to discretion, to the point where Optimus has had to have the dreaded Talk with Spike and Sparkplug about Cybertronian sexuality and all its facets.
Disappointment surges around Optimus from all angles. His Autobots grumble amongst themselves, so honestly defeated that Optimus himself feels guilty. After all, he let Smokescreen and Bluestreak distract him. And then he let Tracks and Sunstreaker drag him off to get repainted when he didn't need it.
He's already late. What could a little more hurt? After all, how often do all of them get time off together?
“I suppose,” he begins, shifting his weight, “if we move to the corner we won't be in anyone's way.” It's early yet, too early for Spike and Sparkplug to stop in for a visit, so in that route, they should be safe. “Or, better yet, we could move to a more private arena.”
“Here's fine!” Windcharger chirps, all but hugging Optimus' left leg.
“I still haven't found one!” Gears declares, throwing up his arms.
“We should move over here,” says Powerglide, tugging on Optimus' right arm as Brawn grabs hold of his left, nearly yanking Optimus from his pedes.
They are small, but Primus are they determined, Optimus realizes with some amusement. He's swept up in a wave of minibots, ushering him out from the middle of the room and subsequently, out of the way of the dispensers.
“I think the floor's easier,” says Cliffjumper, eying Optimus with something a lot like hunger, that makes him shiver with intrigue.
“Floor's dirty,” mutters Huffer. “But I guess if we don't have a better choice...”
“I repeat that we can move this to another location. I am not going to change my mind,” Optimus says.
“The floor isn't that dirty. Primus, Huffer!” Brawn snaps, hands tightening around Optimus' arm such that he is momentarily concerned. But no, Brawn is ever-aware of his own strength and eases back.
How does anything get accomplished with all the bickering, Optimus wonders. Yet, despite it, they somehow manage to move in concert. Optimus finds himself maneuvered to the floor, covered in minibots, with Cliffjumper standing behind him, serving as a backrest. Huffer and Windcharger are straddling his thighs, right and left respectively. Powerglide has a grip on his right arm, Brawn his left. Leaving Gears to stare at them with an increasingly dour expression.
“Left out again,” he mutters, hands on his hips. “This always happens.”
“No, you're not,” Brawn says with an air of exasperation, grabbing his fellow minibot and yanking Gears into a sprawl across Optimus' lap. “Here.”
Optimus' lips twitch with amusement behind his battlemask as Gears lets loose an ungainly squawk, flailing for a minute before Huffer and Windcharger help him right himself. He sits in Optimus' lap, legs spread obscenely wide to accommodate Optimus' wider hip structure, hands planted on Optimus' chest.
“There,” says Windcharger with a burst of satisfaction. “All set.”
Heat buffets Optimus' front, the temperature in their little corner rising as a half-dozen sets of cooling fans whirr to life.
“Shall I go first?” Optimus asks, though the invitation doesn't appear to be needed, not with the way Brawn has taken Optimus' fingers into his mouth, nibbling at them. And while Optimus doesn't have a medic's sensitivity, there's something about the denta and glossa nipping at his fingertips that makes his engine rev.
Cliffjumper's engine is rumbling at his back, eliciting a nice vibration that seems to burrow straight through to Optimus' spark. And Gears has taken it upon himself to explore every nook and cranny of Optimus' chassis, small fingers easily slipping into transformation seams and stroking cables beneath.
“Anytime would be great,” says Windcharger, ventilations a little stuttered as he pops his panels.
Optimus smirks and triggers all of his panels to spool open at once, too flattered to be embarrassed by the sparks that arise in his ports. The minibot horde wastes no time in connecting, and with each cable that clicks home, the heat within Optimus burns a bit brighter.
There are no words to describe the influx of pleasure and arousal that swamps Optimus from helm to pede. From Cliffjumper's eager pulsing at his spinal port, to Huffer and Windcharger somehow feeding him pleasured bursts in tandem, to Brawn's barrage of heavy pulses and Powerglide's skitter-pop like an energon crackle and Gears' flirtatious waves that ebb and flow like the Earth's oceans.
Optimus draws in a heavy ventilation, heat filling the room, and leans back against Cliffjumper, his frame feeling over-full. Charge dances along his sensory net and it takes more concentration than he can directly access to take all that disparate input and merge it into a single sensation.
Huffer makes a noise, his engine revving and sending a wonderful cascade of vibrations over Optimus' plating, igniting his sensor net.
Cliffjumper pushes against his back, rubbing his helm along Optimus' before focusing his attention on a single antenna. Static leaps from Optimus' antenna to Cliffjumper's glossa and back again, sending a tingle of pleasure zinging down Optimus' backstrut.
Gears' fingers continue their in-depth exploration, the minibot's optics glowing brighter and brighter as his frame takes on a motion all its own.
Optimus tries to participate, tries to use each of his hands to caress Powerglide and Brawn, but they turn his intentions against him, capturing his arms and ex-venting wonderful bursts of heat against his plating. It sifts past his armor, teasing the cables and lines beneath.
Pleasure pours in from the six cables connected to Optimus' ports. He tries to take control, as had been the initial request, but somehow, they've changed the rules. The focus shifts to driving him to distraction with varied bursts of affection and desire.
Optimus groans, the sound rattling up from his chassis, his frame shifting beneath the weight of six minibots and not wholly under his control.
Charge licks across his plating, snap-crackling as it surges over his armor and sizzles when it collides with his minibot partners. The sound of more than a half-dozen cooling fans spinning is a loud buzz in the rec room.
Optimus forces his optics online, drinking in the sight of his fellow Autobots in a fast dance toward overload. Bright optics and eager fields and frames twisting and turning to maximize the pleasure.
Affection surges over the seven-way connection, warming Optimus' spark. The pleasure starts in his pedes, rolling upward and shivering through his systems until it blossoms into the brightest overload Optimus can remember experiencing. The release simmers down the cables connecting him to the minibots, setting off a cascading effect.
Cliffjumper's mouth clamps down on his antenna, vocal vibrations dragging out the pleasure as the red minibot succumbs to his own overload. The others follow in suit: Powerglide's wings shivering in a rather delightful manner as the energy crawls over his armor in a beautiful static burst, Brawn's engine growling loud enough to rattle them all, Windcharger losing control of his magnetic abilities and sending Optimus into another strut-shaking overload, Huffer moaning in a tone for once not seething with dissatisfaction, and Gears clutching at Optimus' grill as his heated ex-vents blast against Optimus' windshield.
“Wow,” says Powerglide, a sentiment echoed by the purring satisfaction pulsing down the linked cables.
“Worth it,” agrees Windcharger.
“Finally!” exclaims Brawn.
“My hip joints are seizing up,” grumps Gears.
“We should do it again,” comments Cliffjumper and Optimus can all but hear his grin, though he can't see it.
“Maybe later,” says Huffer. “I think I need a nap.”
And what can Optimus say in response to all of that but laugh and gather as many minibots as he can into an embrace. A cacophony of grumbles, laughter, and squawked surprise fills his audials, but underlying it all is the gratitude and satisfaction.
***
a/n: What's more effective at a guilt trip than Bluestreak with his big optics? A pack of grumbling minibots, that's what! Not that Optimus didn't enjoy himself. I think I might be having a bit too much fun with these.
What's next? Optimus heads to the command center to check on the state of the Ark and humankind and Decepticon activity. I'll give you two guesses as to how much work is going to get done, but you'll probably only need one. ;)
Feedback is welcome and appreciated!
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/244324.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
Still, I hope you enjoy. and this is NSFW.
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 Four: Hook Me Up
Characters: OptimusxGearsxBrawnxCliffjumperxPowerglidexHufferxWindcharger
Enticements: bit o' crack, slight ooc?, p'n'p, orgy, public sex
Systems humming and a languid comfort thrumming through his frame, Optimus heads to the rec room, tanks pinging a need for energon. He also receives a notification of a new message. Suspecting it is merely a query from Prowl regarding his tardiness, Optimus pulls out his datapad and keys open the communication.
No. Not from Prowl at all.
It's another video, this time of his recent excursion into Tracks' quarters. He marvels at the quality of it, and doesn't even have to look to know who sent it. Mirage. The noble spy is certainly sneaking his way around the Ark today.
Chuckling to himself, Optimus saves the file and stows his datapad for future reference. He is gaining quite the collection of erotic videos. He'll have to thank Mirage later.
He turns into the rec room, quickly surveying the current visitors. For this time of day, it is strangely empty, not unlike the halls. The only Autobots present are a gaggle of minibots at the largest table on the far side.
“Good morning, Prime!” Windcharger chirps.
“Morning,” all of the others chorus in various tones from cheerful (Powerglide) to downright dour (Huffer).
“Going to rain today,” Gears adds, always the bright ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. “Would you call that a good morning?”
Optimus returns their greeting, ignores Gears' rhetorical statement, and proceeds to the dispensary. He draws himself a cube of midgrade, checks his chronometer, and finds that he is, at this point, late. Might as well make it fashionable he tells himself, and consumes his energon in several thick swallows, his tanks pinging him with satisfaction and a restoration of adequate energy levels.
He debates drawing another cube, if only to have something to stash in his subspace, when a surly voice interrupts his pondering.
“Found one,” said voice announces, or rather, declares unenthusiastically.
Optimus looks down, confused, to find Huffer standing in front of him, peering at his right thigh in interest. “I beg your pardon?”
“Found another,” someone else says, voice much cheerier and with greater exuberance.
Optimus' helm swings to the left, where Windcharger is standing by his left leg, grinning most triumphantly.
“There's a third!” Powerglide exclaims out of nowhere, nearly startling Optimus as he reaches up and taps the Prime's right arm.
“And this makes four,” Brawn adds, leaning around Windcharger to peer closely at Optimus' left arm. “I think.”
“I hate games,” Gears grumbles as he stomps around them all until he stands in front of Optimus. “All right,” he declares, planting his hands on his hips and staring balefully up at Optimus. “Where are the rest of them?”
Optimus cycles his optics. “The rest of what?”
“There's one right here, too,” says Cliffjumper from somewhere behind Optimus, and he isn't certain where until a light touch brushes across the base of his spinal strut. “Awkward, but doable.”
Confusion reaches a crescendo. “What on Earth are you talking about?” Optimus demands, entirely bewildered.
“I like this one,” Windcharger says with a smile and completely ignoring Optimus' question. It is like the minibots are having a conversation and he hasn't been invited, despite being the topic du jour.
“Might as well claim what we found. It's easier that way,” Huffer mutters and gives the most put-upon sigh Optimus has ever heard. “Guess I'm stuck with the other leg. Figures.”
“I still haven't found one!” Gears protests, stomping a pede in an action Optimus has only seen Earth children use. “Someone help me out.”
“What in Primus' name are you looking for?” Optimus demands, optics swinging from one minibot to the next, save for Cliffjumper who is still behind him.
Brawn rolls his shoulders. “Ports,” he answers in a clipped tone. “You have a lot of them. And more processing power than all the mechs on the Ark. Cept maybe Prowl. Or Red Alert.”
“So we figured you're the only one who could link us,” Windcharger says with a wolfish grin, his field reaching out with a soft caress. “All of us.”
Optimus' optics cycle wider in disbelief. “You want to...?”
“Set up a hub?” Powerglide finishes for him. “Yep. Think you can do it?”
It's not a matter of capability, Optimus thinks. He does have numerous ports, at least three times as many as the average Cybertronian, which is more than enough for the current minibot horde. And trying to manage six different datastreams, well, it's not unlike the sort of datawork he did while helping manage the docks.
But still...
“Of course he can do it!” Cliffjumper snaps, as though personally offended that Optimus' interfacing prowess has been called into question.
“He doesn't want to do it,” Gears mutters. “No one ever wants to do it.”
Huffer throws up his hands. “All of this charge and nowhere to put it,” he says with great lament. “How disappointing.”
“Hold on a minute!” Windcharger says with a firm look to his brethren. “He didn't say no. Right?”
Five pairs of optics turn up at him with curious, pleading looks. He can only assume that Cliffjumper is giving him the same.
“Not exactly,” Optimus begins, knowing he must be careful to choose his words, but the rest of what he planned to say gets lost in a raucous cheering of success. Well, not so much from Huffer and Gears, but the others seem relatively pleased.
“We've been wanting to try this for ages,” Powerglide says with a flutter of his wings. “Too bad Comber's gonna miss it.”
“Beachcomber has other plans, remember?” Windcharger retorts, giving the flier a hard look.
Huffer revs his engine. “Beachcomber has all the fun.”
“Gentlemechs,” Optimus says, a bit loudly to get their attention. “I appreciate the offer, but I am late for my shift. Perhaps another time...?”
He trails off as he is treated to what is quite possibly five of the most crestfallen and disappointed expressions he has ever seen on the face of an Autobot. They put Bluestreak's puppy optics to shame.
“And this is hardly the place,” Optimus adds, with a pointed look around them. Not only is the rec room public, but well, they would impede others if they caused a scene.
“I told you,” Gears says. “We should have never bothered to try.”
“It's because we're minibots, isn't it?” Huffer demands.
“I managed a three-way connect once,” Windcharger murmurs, vocals full of nostalgia. “Never overloaded so hard in all my functioning.”
“It was worth a shot,” Powerglide adds with a roll of his shoulders.
Cliffjumper huffs a ventilation, crossing his arm. “And what's wrong with the rec room anyway? Just last week Smokescreen was bending Sunstreaker backward over the dispenser!”
“I couldn't get any energon,” Gears grumps. “I almost offlined for lack of refueling.”
Hmm. Cliffjumper does have a point. His Autobots have been noticeably slack when it comes to discretion, to the point where Optimus has had to have the dreaded Talk with Spike and Sparkplug about Cybertronian sexuality and all its facets.
Disappointment surges around Optimus from all angles. His Autobots grumble amongst themselves, so honestly defeated that Optimus himself feels guilty. After all, he let Smokescreen and Bluestreak distract him. And then he let Tracks and Sunstreaker drag him off to get repainted when he didn't need it.
He's already late. What could a little more hurt? After all, how often do all of them get time off together?
“I suppose,” he begins, shifting his weight, “if we move to the corner we won't be in anyone's way.” It's early yet, too early for Spike and Sparkplug to stop in for a visit, so in that route, they should be safe. “Or, better yet, we could move to a more private arena.”
“Here's fine!” Windcharger chirps, all but hugging Optimus' left leg.
“I still haven't found one!” Gears declares, throwing up his arms.
“We should move over here,” says Powerglide, tugging on Optimus' right arm as Brawn grabs hold of his left, nearly yanking Optimus from his pedes.
They are small, but Primus are they determined, Optimus realizes with some amusement. He's swept up in a wave of minibots, ushering him out from the middle of the room and subsequently, out of the way of the dispensers.
“I think the floor's easier,” says Cliffjumper, eying Optimus with something a lot like hunger, that makes him shiver with intrigue.
“Floor's dirty,” mutters Huffer. “But I guess if we don't have a better choice...”
“I repeat that we can move this to another location. I am not going to change my mind,” Optimus says.
“The floor isn't that dirty. Primus, Huffer!” Brawn snaps, hands tightening around Optimus' arm such that he is momentarily concerned. But no, Brawn is ever-aware of his own strength and eases back.
How does anything get accomplished with all the bickering, Optimus wonders. Yet, despite it, they somehow manage to move in concert. Optimus finds himself maneuvered to the floor, covered in minibots, with Cliffjumper standing behind him, serving as a backrest. Huffer and Windcharger are straddling his thighs, right and left respectively. Powerglide has a grip on his right arm, Brawn his left. Leaving Gears to stare at them with an increasingly dour expression.
“Left out again,” he mutters, hands on his hips. “This always happens.”
“No, you're not,” Brawn says with an air of exasperation, grabbing his fellow minibot and yanking Gears into a sprawl across Optimus' lap. “Here.”
Optimus' lips twitch with amusement behind his battlemask as Gears lets loose an ungainly squawk, flailing for a minute before Huffer and Windcharger help him right himself. He sits in Optimus' lap, legs spread obscenely wide to accommodate Optimus' wider hip structure, hands planted on Optimus' chest.
“There,” says Windcharger with a burst of satisfaction. “All set.”
Heat buffets Optimus' front, the temperature in their little corner rising as a half-dozen sets of cooling fans whirr to life.
“Shall I go first?” Optimus asks, though the invitation doesn't appear to be needed, not with the way Brawn has taken Optimus' fingers into his mouth, nibbling at them. And while Optimus doesn't have a medic's sensitivity, there's something about the denta and glossa nipping at his fingertips that makes his engine rev.
Cliffjumper's engine is rumbling at his back, eliciting a nice vibration that seems to burrow straight through to Optimus' spark. And Gears has taken it upon himself to explore every nook and cranny of Optimus' chassis, small fingers easily slipping into transformation seams and stroking cables beneath.
“Anytime would be great,” says Windcharger, ventilations a little stuttered as he pops his panels.
Optimus smirks and triggers all of his panels to spool open at once, too flattered to be embarrassed by the sparks that arise in his ports. The minibot horde wastes no time in connecting, and with each cable that clicks home, the heat within Optimus burns a bit brighter.
There are no words to describe the influx of pleasure and arousal that swamps Optimus from helm to pede. From Cliffjumper's eager pulsing at his spinal port, to Huffer and Windcharger somehow feeding him pleasured bursts in tandem, to Brawn's barrage of heavy pulses and Powerglide's skitter-pop like an energon crackle and Gears' flirtatious waves that ebb and flow like the Earth's oceans.
Optimus draws in a heavy ventilation, heat filling the room, and leans back against Cliffjumper, his frame feeling over-full. Charge dances along his sensory net and it takes more concentration than he can directly access to take all that disparate input and merge it into a single sensation.
Huffer makes a noise, his engine revving and sending a wonderful cascade of vibrations over Optimus' plating, igniting his sensor net.
Cliffjumper pushes against his back, rubbing his helm along Optimus' before focusing his attention on a single antenna. Static leaps from Optimus' antenna to Cliffjumper's glossa and back again, sending a tingle of pleasure zinging down Optimus' backstrut.
Gears' fingers continue their in-depth exploration, the minibot's optics glowing brighter and brighter as his frame takes on a motion all its own.
Optimus tries to participate, tries to use each of his hands to caress Powerglide and Brawn, but they turn his intentions against him, capturing his arms and ex-venting wonderful bursts of heat against his plating. It sifts past his armor, teasing the cables and lines beneath.
Pleasure pours in from the six cables connected to Optimus' ports. He tries to take control, as had been the initial request, but somehow, they've changed the rules. The focus shifts to driving him to distraction with varied bursts of affection and desire.
Optimus groans, the sound rattling up from his chassis, his frame shifting beneath the weight of six minibots and not wholly under his control.
Charge licks across his plating, snap-crackling as it surges over his armor and sizzles when it collides with his minibot partners. The sound of more than a half-dozen cooling fans spinning is a loud buzz in the rec room.
Optimus forces his optics online, drinking in the sight of his fellow Autobots in a fast dance toward overload. Bright optics and eager fields and frames twisting and turning to maximize the pleasure.
Affection surges over the seven-way connection, warming Optimus' spark. The pleasure starts in his pedes, rolling upward and shivering through his systems until it blossoms into the brightest overload Optimus can remember experiencing. The release simmers down the cables connecting him to the minibots, setting off a cascading effect.
Cliffjumper's mouth clamps down on his antenna, vocal vibrations dragging out the pleasure as the red minibot succumbs to his own overload. The others follow in suit: Powerglide's wings shivering in a rather delightful manner as the energy crawls over his armor in a beautiful static burst, Brawn's engine growling loud enough to rattle them all, Windcharger losing control of his magnetic abilities and sending Optimus into another strut-shaking overload, Huffer moaning in a tone for once not seething with dissatisfaction, and Gears clutching at Optimus' grill as his heated ex-vents blast against Optimus' windshield.
“Wow,” says Powerglide, a sentiment echoed by the purring satisfaction pulsing down the linked cables.
“Worth it,” agrees Windcharger.
“Finally!” exclaims Brawn.
“My hip joints are seizing up,” grumps Gears.
“We should do it again,” comments Cliffjumper and Optimus can all but hear his grin, though he can't see it.
“Maybe later,” says Huffer. “I think I need a nap.”
And what can Optimus say in response to all of that but laugh and gather as many minibots as he can into an embrace. A cacophony of grumbles, laughter, and squawked surprise fills his audials, but underlying it all is the gratitude and satisfaction.
***
a/n: What's more effective at a guilt trip than Bluestreak with his big optics? A pack of grumbling minibots, that's what! Not that Optimus didn't enjoy himself. I think I might be having a bit too much fun with these.
What's next? Optimus heads to the command center to check on the state of the Ark and humankind and Decepticon activity. I'll give you two guesses as to how much work is going to get done, but you'll probably only need one. ;)
Feedback is welcome and appreciated!
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/244324.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.