02. Public Obedience
Wheeljack, for all of his wits, could be a bit slow on the uptake sometimes.
Prowl had been quiet for most of the evening, tucked as he was against Ratchet’s side, one of Ratchet’s arms slung over his shoulders. He’d sipped on his energon, commented a few times, but mostly sat and listened while Ratchet and Wheeljack chattered.
Wheeljack didn’t think anything of it.
Then Ironhide joined them later, loudly throwing himself down into the seat next to Wheeljack, and nudging him by the shoulder with a knowing smirk. Why, Wheeljack didn’t think to question.
Until Prowl shivered. His optics shifted to a darker hue. He fidgeted, and Prowl didn’t fidget, but Ratchet continued on like nothing was the matter. His free hand made broad gestures, nearly threatening to spill his high grade.
Wheeljack looked between them, a slow realization dawning, as Ironhide’s grin grew broader and he leaned forward against the table, watching with nothing short of eagerness.
Wheeljack’s fans threatened to spin up.
Ratch and Prowl didn’t much play in outright public. Behind closed doors with invitations extended to a select few, sure. But not generally right here in front of all and sundry and anyone around in the rec.
Prowl was notoriously private, but every once in a while, his deeply buried exhibitionist kink reared its head and Ratchet, exhibitionist to the extreme, was always delighted to comply. They really were a perfect match.
Prowl shivered again and abruptly set his energon on the table, though he kept his hand curled around the cube. He turned in toward Ratchet, almost hiding his face in the broad curve of Ratchet’s windshield.
“Ratchet,” he said, though it better came out a plea, a visible tremor racing across his plating.
Ratchet blinked, full of innocence, and looked down at his mate. His fingers stroked the leading edge of Prowl’s nearest doorwing. “Yes, Prowl?”
Wheeljack’s breath caught in his throat. He wasn’t the only one rapt. Ironhide stared, and Wheeljack almost swore that the large mech drooled.
Prowl’s free hand abandoned the cube and moved to slip around Ratchet’s waist, hidden beneath his voluptuous bumper. To the rest of the rec, it almost looked like Prowl was taking a nap on Ratchet’s shoulder. But this close, Wheeljack could feel the sudden heat and need in Prowl’s field.
“Here?” Prowl asked.
Ratchet sipped at his mid-grade. He winked at both Wheeljack and Ironhide over the rim of it before he lowered the cube again. “I don’t plan on moving. I’m comfortable. What about you two?” Ratchet’s optics all but sparkled.
“Never been better,” Wheeljack chirped.
“Pit, I just got here. Haven’t even had time to realize how hard this chair is yet,” Ironhide said.
Prowl shivered again, pushing harder against Ratchet’s side. Wheeljack realized, if he listened really, really hard, he could just barely make out the sound of something buzzing.
Oh, Primus. His own array throbbed hard.
“There. See?” Ratchet turned his head, brushing his lips over the crown of Prowl’s head. “We’re all comfortable here. So you can just relax, love. And enjoy.”
Love, he said, yet his lips curled like a devil’s, and there was nothing short of smug dominance in his field. Primus but Ratchet was a menace. Oh, sure. He was kind as all get out, and he cared deeply for his fellow Autobots. But there was a need for control a mile wide in his spark, and that Prowl gave it to him so willingly was like a drug for Ratchet.
Come to think of it, that was probably the reason he and Ratch never got to be anymore than friends. Wheeljack trusted Ratchet, but he couldn’t imagine giving himself over to someone like that.
Prowl made a sound, a barely audible whimper, and his movements became more restless, though to the distant observer, they wouldn’t see anything at all. Only this close, at this table, could Wheeljack and Ironhide see how much he squirmed, how his lips parted in a narrow pant, how his optics flared and flashed.
Ratchet sipped at his energon again.
Ironhide loudly cycled his vocalizer. “How many?”
Ratchet slowly licked his lips. “Three,” he said, as nonchalant as you please.
“Primus,” Ironhide groaned, and sat back, his hand falling to his thigh, but not going any further. Not even he was bold enough to self-service right here and now. “Yer a menace, ya know that?”
Ratchet chuckled. “Is that jealousy talking?”
“Not anymore. I can’t wrangle ya, Ratch. I ain’t ashamed to admit that.”
“Three,” Wheeljack echoed faintly, and his valve clenched on nothing.
But where? He wondered. One in Prowl’s valve, for sure. One in his secondary port as well. But the third?
Wheeljack’s optics widened in sudden realization. “No,” he said, with a realized gasp. “Ratch, you didn’t.”
“I did,” Ratchet said, and sipped demurely at his cube again, while his hand continued to stroke Prowl’s doorwing and Prowl continued to twitch and shake and make cute little noises at his side.
Sweet Primus on a pogostick.
Wheeljack’s face heated. What would that feel like, he wondered. To have a vibrating object lodged in your spike sheath, pressing in on your depressurized spike, exciting sensors but not being able to extend your spike. What torture. What pleasure.
“Ratchet,” Prowl murmured, something in his tone pleading. He quivered, his faceplate heating, turning colors from what little of it Wheeljack could see.
Ratchet turned back toward his partner. “Yes, Prowl?” he asked, but something in the way he said ‘Prowl’ implied a different designation.
Prowl didn’t reply, but his doorwings shivered, and he ex-vented noisily, a loud burst of heat from his vents. His cooling fans ticked on with a telling whirr.
Ratchet placed his cube on the table, cupped Prowl’s head with his free hand, and dragged his fingers up, sliding them around the curve of Prowl’s face before he pinched the tip of Prowl’s chevron.
Prowl jerked, barely perceptible, and gnawed on his bottom lip.
“You don’t have to wait on me, Prowl,” Ratchet said, both devious and affectionate, as he dropped his hand back to his cube, settling into the seat as casual as you please. “You’re free to do whatever you want.”
Wheeljack might have, too.
He didn’t realize he was holding his vents, leaning forward, entirely enraptured, until Ironhide’s hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality. Ironhide was amused, but there was heat in his optics.
Looked like he had another long night of christening every surface in his laboratory ahead of him. Not that he was at all complaining.
Ratchet and Prowl were damn inspiring.
Especially now, as Prowl pushed harder against Ratchet’s side, his engine purring. Permission must have been all he sought, because his lips parted in a soundless cry as he jerked hard, doorwings fluttering, hand forming a fist against Ratchet’s belly. His headlights flickered, emergency sirens warbling on the lowest frequency Wheeljack had ever heard.
He’d never wanted to bite a set of LEDs so hard in his life.
Prowl’s field flashed, there and gone again, but not so fast Wheeljack wasn’t bombarded with dizzying heat and lust.
He groaned, his own hands forming fists if only to keep from touching his own equipment. His valve ached, and his spike throbbed, and he was reminded of his own exhibitionist streak.
Prowl sagged against Ratchet, the tension gone from his frame, his faceplate pink. He didn’t look at Ironhide and Wheeljack, however. If anything, he now actually looked like he was going to recharge.
“And that’s that,” Ratchet said, putting his now empty cube onto the table. “So if you mechs don’t mind, it looks like Prowl’s done for the night so I think we’re going to skedaddle.”
Ironhide snorted. “I’ll say.”
“Shut up, you.” Ratchet laughed as he scooted out of the booth, tugging Prowl with him. “Come on, love. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Wheeljack shivered again. “Have fun,” he said, bracing his chin on his palm and his elbow on the table. He hoped he didn’t sound wistful and jealous.
Prowl’s cheeks darkened a little. He looked between Wheeljack and Ironhide and dipped his head in a nod. “Thank you for the company,” he said.
“Anytime,” Ironhide said.
Wheeljack watched them go, and hoped no one noticed how hard he was staring at Prowl’s aft. There was no outside indication of all the toys stuffed into him, but Wheeljack could imagine them easily enough.
His finials heated.
“Well, that’s it for me, too.” Ironhide slapped his hands on the table and stood up, only to peer down at Wheeljack. “Are you decent enough to join me, or would you rather go back to your lab and desecrate another image capture?”
Wheeljack jerked to his feet, nearly slamming his knees on the underside of the table. “That was – It’s not – I wasn’t–”
“Oh, yes, you were.” Ironhide chuckled and cupped Wheeljack by the elbow, guiding him away from the table. “What’s worse is Prowl has no idea how sexy he is, too. Am I right?”
Wheeljack groaned and resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. “Ratchet is a menace. If I didn’t enjoy it so much, I’d ignore his invitations.”
Ironhide snorted and patted Wheeljack on the aft. “At least we got each other, eh? What say you frag me through the berth tonight?”
And if Wheeljack hurried out of the rec room with a little more speed than was casual, oh the frag well.