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... )
http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=7396233#t7396233
Title: Open Circle
Continuity: AU to just about everything, but most closely resembling TFP
Warnings: Voyeurism, light bondage, orgy, m/m, sticky, religious themes, virginity/defloration, slight flavor of dub-con in a couple of instances.
Pairings: Optimus/Autobots.
Still not done with the scene, but here's a little more anyway. ^^;
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Movement between his hands returned his mind to the subject in question. Optimus nuzzled at Ratchet's fingers, optics glowing softly at him. "Oh you'll get plenty of attention from me later," Ratchet said, grinning. He patted Optimus’ helm and stepped away.
Beams of sunlight from the high windows moved slowly across the floor. Drift's armor blazed white, burned black as he crossed through sunlight into shadow. He lifted his arms as if in embrace, optics dim, fields murmuring low, already halfway into a meditative state. He approached Optimus, but did not quite touch. He bent his body this way and that, fields spreading, meshing with the Prime's, optics entirely extinguished. Within Optimus the Matrix pulsed, casting a beam of radiance outward that had only peripherally to do with sight, striking through Drift's chest and spark to the jewel in the hilt of the sword on his back. Drift felt as though he and Optimus stood alone in some high, dark place with nothing around them for vast distances, but beyond that distance the universe boiled and swarmed with life and energy. And somehow within, a kind of sacred geometry had been made of his spark, the jewel and the Matrix, and the equations solving that geometry were pouring in heavy, hot-liquid gushes from his interface array; spike and valve.
Drift made a small, helpless sound, arched rigid for a moment, then collapsed. Ultra Magnus darted forward and caught him, nodding reassurance at the alarmed look on Optimus' face.
"He's fine," the Magnus said. He cradled the young nun until Drift's systems rebooted.
"Showoff," Blurr and Hot Rod muttered, but their tone was more fond than scathing. Drift made a rude gesture at them out of reflex as Ultra Magnus set him on his pedes, blinking muzzily and rubbing unselfconsciously at his chest and then at his crotch, as though expecting to find there some evidence of what had happened. His hands were warm from charge release, but unslicked. At a nod from the Magnus, he bowed and left the hall, aiming a kick at Hot Rod that the latter dodged with the lazy nonchalance of a single vorn's life experience.
Blurr appeared on the platform as if teleported. He stalked a staccato circle around the bound Prime, quivering with intense interest, tilting his streamlined head as though contemplating the best line of attack. Optimus was a large mech. There was a lot of territory to consider. Blurr settled - for the moment - behind him, rubbing the core vents on his back coyly before diving for his aft and legs, hands quick and clever, fingers seeking tender access. Optimus knelt up to give him freer range, hips jinking as Blurr reached between his legs, darting a grab at his spike from below. But the proximity was having an effect on Blurr as well. His hands trembled and steadied, trembled and steadied, flicking from seam to node, slick and sliding from Optimus' lubricant, smearing up his arm to the elbow. Those core vents were hot and blowing…
Already, Blurr was getting slag over private comms from Hot Rod. Just because Blurr was always the first one to blow his charge when the three of them meditated together. That didn’t mean he couldn’t take his time if he felt like it. It wasn’t his fault his processors and somatic systems were tuned so fast the outside world seemed to amble by in slow motion. He wasn’t bad at meditation. He wasn’t! He liked getting to the deeps as much as anyone, where it felt like the hand of Primus was moving through your entire body, immense and immanent fingers slipping down between your legs…
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Blurr opened his mouth wide, hands clutching at the things he was holding on to; arching and shivering against a back strong and wide enough to shelter them all from the acid rain and willing to shoulder anything else if it was asked.
He sank to a crouch, balanced on the hard points of his narrow feet, venting heavily; recovering. He steadied himself on the Prime’s shoulder, unshuttering his optics to meet Optimus’ questioning gaze. Blurr smiled. He may not have lasted long, but he’d gotten to feel the hard length of a Prime’s spike pulsing in his hand; poor Drift hadn’t even gotten that far. They’d spend the next decavorn teasing him about it.
Hot Rod didn’t wait for Blurr to move before striding onto the platform and winding his arms around Optimus’ neck. Blurr shot him a filthy look, morphed it to a knowing grin, and flitted out of the hall.
“I bet my spike’s as big as yours,” Hot Rod whispered, lips pure measures from Optimus’ audial. “When it comes out, I bet it’ll curve upward like yours, all wet and ready.” Ratchet wouldn’t tell anyone what their equipment scanned like. It wasn’t fair. He and Perceptor and maybe Wheeljack and Hoist knew for themselves. But Ratchet and Ultra Magnus and that old gearshift Kup thought it was better for most of them to have that discovery to look forward to if they found the True Bearer, and better to never know and not speculate if they didn’t. “I bet my valve is stellate at the rim; I bet I can take any size mech inside and I’ll be so hot and dripping down my thighs. You’ll want to initiate me first, I bet, take me right on this platform in front of the Magnus and everybody.” He slid his hands lower, wrapped them around Optimus’ hips, his own interface panel sealed and closed and so close to Optimus’ spike they could feel each other’s heat. “But maybe I’ll make you take me last.”
“Mmmmmmmm,” Optimus hummed, optics now the vivid blue of approaching twilight, his mouth not quite touching the cables of Hot Rod’s throat. “However you want it, sweetspark.”
And oh slag that was really not fair, throwing fields and harmonics like that and Hot Rod bared his denta and partitioned charge desperately and relax, relax, relax, think about something else, not the rooftops and Thundercracker’s engines, something boring, boring, boring like Blurr’s maintenance schedule and does he have to polish himself that often, really? And that wasn’t helping either, so Hot Rod pushed away, stood unbowed to prove he could; venting hard, maybe, but he hadn’t surrendered like the others. He could have gone deeper if he’d wanted to, but Perceptor was next and everyone knew he’d been eager from the first circle cast.
Hot Rod’s grin at Ultra Magnus had a lot of teeth in it. Shaking, he made way, returning the quick squeeze of hand from Perceptor as they passed.
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Optimus saw him only as the well-proportioned mech who had stood in the eastern quarter of the circle; mostly black armor decorated here and there with arcane astronomical symbols and glyphs and star signs. Sweetly handsome, younger seeming than he was. Optimus was learning things the moment people touched him. Not stolen data, not mind-knowledge, not memory-core access, not even body-knowledge exactly; but spark-knowledge, maker-knowledge. Some conduit opened, metal to metal. Optimus didn’t question, let his conscious self sink further into whatever this ritual was doing to him.
Perceptor made no effort to disguise or restrain his own responses. He explored Optimus’ body with scientific diligence that had nothing to do with passionlessness. Every hitch and rev of engine, every little gasp was an effortless revelation, an open invitation. Perceptor’s body moved in its desire to have Optimus’ arms around it. Perceptor’s mouth made no secret of its desire to be kissed. His hands were sure and deft on Optimus’ spike, undaunted by size or shape or complexity or unfamiliarity. Perceptor was interested.
If his mind was barely keeping optics above the surface of the pleasure-oil sea, Optimus’ body was surely full submerged. His hips rolled slow and smooth, his hands tightened and relaxed on the gold cable warm from contact with his body. Charge arousal seemed to course from the stone beneath him, a torrent through his body, through the cable to the chandelier, through stone again. Direct current ground to sky, holding him in incandescent suspension. Perceptor’s little cries and writhing would have been his undoing, had he not already fallen into this state.
Perceptor at last found his own balance point and fell past it. Gaining his feet on shaky legs, mouth tingling without kisses, he cupped Optimus’ face in his black hands, watching the Prime’s optics turn the color of full twilight. The look in Perceptor’s optics promised things. Soon. He nearly tripped over Wheeljack, stumbling from the platform amid the heated murmurs of the watching nuns.
Another few nuns had arms wrapped tight around themselves, trying to hang on until their turn. But their long habit of watching, of being watched as they meditated, attaining unusual depths and lengths of arousal and mind-body connection, had both prepared them and left them as though stuck halfway through a transformation.
Wheeljack wandered onto the platform, removing a trio of small objects (one appeared to be composed of wispy not-quite-matter) from his person and began assembling them. Ultra Magnus sighed and tapped the ferrule of his hammer lightly on the floor.
“Wheeljack. Please.”
The weaponsmaster deflated somewhat and put his nascent device away. “Never hurts to try.” He spread his fingers instead, and extended them into long, searching tentacles. Ultra Magnus rubbed at his optic ridges but forbore any further comment as Optimus rather eagerly lifted the plates of his armor away from his endoform to allow the tentacles to stroke and pet and nibble sensitive places. Optimus’ movements were becoming more and more sinuous, impending and slow, his responses more vocal if not fully verbal.
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