Sticky Response Pt 3
This post is closed to new stories! Head over to Pt 5!
Stories that were started here continue here.
FIC: Continuity - Title (optional) - Characters - brief Kink (please include the entire thing on every part you post and for every comment!) and put Ch# or Pt# at the end. Note any major squicks or kinks in the header as a courtesy to the ( Read more... )
Stories that were started here continue here.
FIC: Continuity - Title (optional) - Characters - brief Kink (please include the entire thing on every part you post and for every comment!) and put Ch# or Pt# at the end. Note any major squicks or kinks in the header as a courtesy to the ( Read more... )
With a quiet snik he opened his interface panel, letting his spike extend fully, internally roiling with pressurized transfluid, his valve engorged and moist. He could arch forward, stroke Ultra Magnus’ ventrum and inner thighs with the tip of his spike. They could only touch him with their hands, but nothing had been said of the reverse.
This wasn’t about clever dodges and workarounds. His bindings were symbolic. He must place himself in their hands. In perfect love and perfect trust. Ultra Magnus’ hands moved up his thighs, along the juncture of hip and torso, closer and closer to his interface array.
“Aa-aahn…” Long, sensitive fingers traced the banded and whorled segments of his spike, slipping in the hot lubricant seeping from the tip and tiny emitters along its length. A sub-vocal shiver ran around the circle of nuns. Ultra Magnus’ optics remained tightly shuttered, but Optimus watched his face. The Magnus trembled, frame painfully taut. He shifted to one side, straddling Optimus’ right leg without touching, though Optimus could feel the heat radiating off Ultra Magnus’ interface panel. One hand moved to draw circles over Optimus’ lower back, the other taking a firmer grip on his spike, stroking up and down, thumb rubbing the tip on the upstroke. Optimus’ hips made an abortive, uncoordinated thrust before he controlled himself, willing his body to stillness as the collective venting in the hall grew louder. He could hear Ultra Magnus’ jaw clench.
“Be one with your body,” Beachcomber hummed. “Be inside and outside. Be the pleasure. Be everything.”
“Don’t help him!” Sunstreaker hissed.
“Nonsense,” said Perceptor. “No one can comprehend a word Beachcomber says unless they already understand what he means.”
“Magnus,” Optimus whispered, bowing his head close to the other’s but making no attempt to touch, to kiss. The stroking of his spike became faster, harder, almost desperate. Lubricant from his valve dripped along the rim, down the supporting structures of the array. “Mmm…Magnus, remember your…your own rules. You can s-stop before you…”
Ultra Magnus curled forward, gasping, charge crackling across his armor. Behind his seals, a small amount of lubricant and an immature form of transfluid circulated, recycled into his systems after the storm had passed. Panting, he stood, and backed away, reaching blindly for his hammer, which Prowl gently returned to him. No one spoke. Optimus watched him keenly. Was he recovering from overload or in spiritual pain?
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A small mech, Beachcomber knelt fully between Optimus’ widely parted legs and wrapped both hands around the thick, jutting spike. Humming to himself, he began to massage it with slow, firm strokes. His voice was deep and resonant, and the vibrations travelled down his arms into his hands. Optimus squirmed. This was a bit unfair. The singing grew louder and the melody wandered as Beachcomber’s back arched, his hands sliding and clutching faster, bringing Optimus dangerously close. Little droplets of lubrication spattered his belly and Beachcomber’s chest.
Slowing his hands suddenly, Beachcomber leaned forward, glossa extended. Optimus shuttered his optics.
“That’s liminal, Beachcomber,” Ultra Magnus said quietly. “As you are well aware.” Beachcomber chuckled and withdrew the offending appendage, moving his hands again. Several mechs along in the line, Perceptor made a disappointed sound, much to the amusement of those around him.
“All are one,” Beachcomber hummed, working Optimus’ spike firmly, putting his shoulders into it; deep stimulation Optimus could feel not just in his spike, but moving upward from it through his core like a rising beam of plasma, pure and cleansing. “All are Primus. Primus in you and in me. Touching ourselves, touching each other, touching him is all one.”
All are one. It was an ancient phrase, a cliché. Optimus’ CPU was travelling strange circles in this place. The Matrix thrummed and whirred. He could feel the light of it spreading through his body, smoothing the jagged edges of his arousal, lifting him into a steady state, a high plateau.
His hips jerked once, twice, three times; but with a long, deep vent, he relaxed, heat pouring off him, his spike slick and hard and pulsing in Beachcomber’s hands. Not a drop of transfluid escaped. He met Beachcomber’s beatific smile with a shaky grin.
Beachcomber stood, letting his fingertips trail along Optimus’ spike, and backed off the platform. His smile and humming didn’t waver, but there was an obvious sway to his hips that had not been there before. Flickering his visor in lieu of a wink, Beachcomber sauntered from the hall.
Trembling in sporadic waves, Hound ascended the platform next. Neither of the previous two carriers of the Matrix had gotten as far as this trial, and no one currently in the Order, except Kup, was old enough to remember Galena Prime. Hound was one of those who had pursued his meditation practice always and ever alone, despite the many offers he’d received to assist him in attaining the deeper levels. He’d been afraid, as he was afraid now, that touching someone else, being touched by someone else, would be more than his seals and vows could endure. Optimus’ chest was so broad and strong, the red chromatophores drawing the optic, riveting attention. And then the slender silver ventrum, so fetchingly plated, framed by deep blue faulds.
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Hound placed his hands on Optimus’ chest. The heat of his armor! The intoxicating vibration of his engine, the low whirr of coolant pumps and the gusting of oil-fragrant air with each deep ventilation. The armor on Hound’s forearms stood out from his endoform. He moved his hands slowly downward. Each interlocking and flexible plate of armor begged to be limned and explored…and yet…there was, farther down…there was… Hound thought he should shutter his optics, but he couldn’t stop staring. It was simply a part of every mech, and yet Hound had never seen one in the metal before. He wanted to touch it. He was meant to touch it. He didn’t know what would happen inside him if he did. One hand drifted lower, hovering. Fields and streamers of heat rose from the spike itself. Hound shivered, hand moving closer.
Optimus lifted his hips, spike aching to complete the contact.
Hound closed his hand around the spike, feeling it in his whole body like a high volt, low amp shock, growing in power, overwhelming him sense by sense. Optimus moved in his grasp, and the sight of that gleaming spike emerging between his own fingers, slick with lubricant, sent Hound tumbling, shuddering to hands and knees, his face so close to the spike as he tried to rise that he nearly overloaded again.
Across the hall, a tall but unusually slender mech, whose coloration was an elegant design of black and white in equal measure, gave a low cry and dropped to his knees in spontaneous overload. After a moment, the nuns beside him helped him to his feet. He took a step forward, beseeching the Magnus with his optics.
“Your choice, Mirage,” Ultra Magnus said kindly.
With a wavering smile, Mirage bowed and took himself from the hall and the trial. The part of Optimus that could still think such things was glad at least one person would be keeping Skyfire company.
Hound dragged himself off the platform. Bumblebee moved to help him, but Hound waved him away, smiling to remove any sting. It wasn’t that he didn’t want the help; he just didn’t think he could have anyone touch him right now without sending him over the edge. He felt as though he would never be able to touch himself the same way again. Everything he did and thought in meditation now would be colored by the overwhelming proximity of the Matrix-Bearer. He wanted to be alone to savor every nanoklick.
Optics still trained on Hound’s retreating form in concern, Bumblebee approached slowly, almost stumbling when he at last turned and realized how close he was to Optimus’ body. He put his hands up to steady himself…
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Bumblebee sank to his knees, hands trailing down Optimus’ body. At optic-level now was the gleaming spike, hot and pulsing. Below it, Bee could see Optimus’ valve; just as hot, clenching on air, clear fluid gathering and overflowing, the tiny lights of sensor nodes leading his gaze in, leading deep, like the contemplation maze below. Oh, Primus! Bee wanted to touch, to go in, to follow the lights as they winked and shimmered, the walls of Prime’s valve expanding and contracting in needy reflex. He rubbed at Prime’s thighs, the polished cuisses smooth and alluringly curved under his hands. His doorwings shivered, buzzing with nervous energy. Shuddering, he bowed his head and grasped Optimus’ spike.
“Easy,” Optimus murmured. “Take your ti-mmmMMM!”
Bumblebee loosened his grip somewhat. He began to stroke, swiftly entranced by the way each ridge and whorl caused his fingertips to move up and down with each minute contour. The sensation bloomed through his hands, his wrists, forearms - and down, where all the rest of his energy seemed to be going. His engine hitched, stuttered, and he arched backward, hands clutching as though Optimus’ spike was a grounding rod, as blue licks of static chased across his body.
Optimus moaned with him, hips twitching, but Bee’s climax had been solo.
Frowning, Ratchet approached Optimus as Bumblebee gathered his composure. He tipped Prime’s head back, into the light, calling up an image he’d recorded earlier. Yes. His optics were a shade darker blue. As far as Ratchet was concerned, this trial was over. They’d met their match, met their mate. He lifted an orbital ridge at Ultra Magnus.
The Magnus shook his head minutely. They would see this out to the end.
Ratchet sighed. Well, Optimus was holding up just fine. Nothing they could do to him now would do anything but bring their god more fully into his metal. And maybe the Magnus was right. Maybe they all needed this. Let the ritual run its full course, and maybe - maybe - they would all be a little more prepared for what would happen after.
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*whimpers and mewls*
You just broke me in the best sort of way, AA. I just spontaneously combusted, and then reformed like a phoenix, and then did it again. I was barely hanging in there, and then there was that description of Bumblebee looking in his valve and the pretty sensor lights (My God, it's full of stars!) and I just al;fdjal;sdfjla;jflkajfka
Gonna go and join this convent now, kay?
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Yeah, I think convent life would really suit me. ;DDD
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I also really like how you have all the nuns in black and white, rather than their usual colors. It's a nice touch.
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Awesome!
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I wasn't sure about it the first time I saw it in my inbox, I saw Prowl's bit at the beginning with the knife and I went 'EEK' and deleted it immediately >//<; But a few of my friends kept recc'ing it everywhere so I thought it'd be worth a second chance.
SO Glad I did.
*fans self, swooning a bit*
On a random note: I'm really eager to see Kup in this. I keep hearing him mentioned and every time I just keeping seeing him as Sister Mary Lazarus from Sister Act XD
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Aw, sorry Prowl freaked you out, there. o.o It was just a ritual thing, acknowledging the danger they're all in, really, what with the war starting in earnest and all.
Oh frag yes Kup will be involved! This was just the beginning of this scene. Kup figures he can show these young bots a thing or three about groping yessir! ;D
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Eeeeeee I can't wait for that XD Sassy old nuns are the best XD
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LOL! :D
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