[G1] Behind the Scenes 04

04: Over the Edge

It was not the oddest invitation Wheeljack had ever received from Ratchet, but it was certainly the most disconcerting. It was also not the first time he’d received a list of instructions regarding his own behavior. Ratch trusted him. It was why he was often invited to witness one of Ratchet and Prowl’s sessions.

But this… this was something else entirely.

Do not interrupt for any reason, Ratchet had warned, in bolded glyphs for emphasis. He is going to say ‘no’. He is going to tell me to ‘stop’. And I’m not going to.

That bothered Wheeljack a little. It made him squirm deep down inside, but part of him wasn’t entirely sure if it was lust or discomfort or an off-putting mix of both.

If you can’t watch without trying to intervene, don’t come, Ratchet added. If you shove him out of his headspace, I will remove yours and shove it up your aft, understand?

Wheeljack had debated with himself long and hard about whether or not he would do this. In the end, lust and curiosity won out. He wanted to watch. He wanted to accept this invitation.

And wasn’t at all surprised when he arrived at Ratchet’s quarters at nearly the same time as Ironhide, the Prime’s bodyguard grinning from audial to audial, his field already dizzy with lust, and his armor billowing heat.

“You, too, eh?” he said as he hit the call button to request access.

Wheeljack nodded and wriggled his datapad. “Did you get some weird instructions, too?” He tucked said datapad back into his subspace.

Ironhide laughed. “Just the one.” He leaned in close, lips inches from Wheeljack’s audial. “My job is to make sure ya don’t do anythin’ stupid.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wheeljack demanded, indignant.

Ironhide leaned back, lips curved. “Look, I’ve seen this before. And I know how you think, Mr. Knight in Shining Armor with a fetish for reserved tacticians. You ain’t savin’ no one from nothin’, so I need to make sure ya don’t try. Got me?”

Wheeljack ground his denta, even as the door slid open to admit them. “It’s not a fetish,” he bit out as he followed Ironhide inside, the door nearly clipping his aft in its urgency to close.

“Sure it ain’t.” Ironhide snorted.

Wheeljack wanted to retort, but the words died on his glossa. Instead, he nearly swallowed said glossa, and may have briefly forgotten how to ventilate.

The scene had already begun apparently. There would be no waiting around for the set up. Not at all. Prowl was already bound and on display, with two chairs arranged near enough to see everything, but not interfere.

Ironhide took a seat, and Wheeljack blindly groped for his, unable to look away from the enticing sight.

Ratchet had Prowl pulled to the very edge of the berth, though enough pillows stacked up behind him to support his back and head. He was partially reclined, which allowed him to see both Ratchet, and the two invited voyeurs. But his wrists had been bound to his ankles, and ropes looped around his knees, which were then bound to something under the berth, keeping his legs spread and open. His interface array was on full display, and Wheeljack’s mouth went dry.

Prowl’s spike had been locked away, and his secondary port panel was closed as well, but his valve was bared, already swollen with arousal and soaking wet. Lubricant glimmered in the shadows of it, and glittered where it trickled over the caudal lip and down the curve of his aft. The urge to lick those plump folds – decorated in vertical strips of grey and red – rose up in Wheeljack so fast his mouth filled with lubricant and his engine gave the quietest of revs.

Ironhide grabbed Wheeljack’s nearest wrist and tugged him. He all but fell into his chair, his spark hammering in his chest, and his array slamming into readiness with a speed that nearly hurt.

“Behave,” he hissed.

“I am,” Wheeljack snapped.

“You’re late,” Ratchet said. He stood to Prowl’s right, one of his hands resting on Prowl’s knees, the other propped on his hip. He didn’t look annoyed. If anything, Ratchet looked like the turbofox which caught the metallocanary.

Wheeljack cycled his optics. “We’re right on time.”

Ironhide squeezed his wrist as though in warning before he let Wheeljack go. “Sorry, Ratch.”

“I didn’t wait,” Ratchet said, his tone conversational, even as his hand slowly slid down Prowl’s knee, toward his thigh and hip. “Which Prowl is grateful for. Aren’t you?” The lazy rasp of metal over metal was captivating.

Prowl visibly shivered, the blue of his optics darkening to an oceanic hue. “Y-yes, Ratchet,” he said, glossa flicking over his lips. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Prowl,” Ratchet purred, his hand now resting at the apex of Prowl’s thigh, fingers curved around it, millimeters from his valve. “Ironhide, did you get my memo?”

“I did.” Ironhide shifted around in his chair and rested a hand on Wheeljack’s thigh, giving it a pat. “Ya ain’t got nothing to worry about, Ratch. Right, ‘Jack?”

Wheeljack’s intake bobbed. He found himself watching Ratchet’s hands with perhaps a little more scrutiny than was merited. “Right.”

“Good.” Ratchet’s fingers slid toward Prowl’s array, his palm skating over the puffy, dripping pleats of it. “Because someone here has a lesson to learn. Tell them what you did, Prowl.”

Prowl’s engine whined. His ventilations hitched. “I-I overloaded without permission,” he said, breathless, his frame twitching in the confines of his bonds. The biolights around his array were pulsing fitfully, his optical lenses fully dilated.

The air was thick with the smell of lust, of lubrication, and Wheeljack swallowed another groan. Heat pooled behind his array.

“For which the punishment is…?” Ratchet prompted with a quick flick to Prowl’s anterior node cluster, the crimson nub swollen and bright.

Prowl’s back arched. His headlights flashed. He moaned, optics falling to half-shutter. Charge snapped like little fireworks from beneath his armor. He was already close. Wheeljack had seen Prowl close to overload enough times to recognize the signs.

Ratchet pinched Prowl’s anterior node. “Prowl.”

Prowl stirred. “T-to overload on your command.”


“Until I’m allowed to stop.” Prowl’s vocals were more dreamy now, enraptured, and his gaze had shifted to Ratchet, staring at him with the kind of open awe mechs tended to reserve for their first meeting with Prime.

Ratchet met Prowl’s gaze, his touch to Prowl’s nub almost incidental, save that his fingers worked in tiny, tiny circles. Prowl’s hips moved, as little as he was able, to match Ratchet’s motions.

“That’s right,” Ratchet purred and Wheeljack had to swallow a whimper. “Now give me the first one.”

Prowl’s engine whined. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, his hips bucking against Ratchet’s fingers, liberally soaked in his lubricant. His hands curled into shaking fists, and his head tossed back as he overloaded, charge crawling over his armor in a burst of blue fire.

Ironhide’s fingers dug into Wheeljack’s thigh plating. “Breathe, ‘Jack,” he said, subvocal.

Wheeljack sucked in a ventilation. He forced himself to lean back, as he’d moved to the edge of his seat. He sat on his hands to stop himself from scrubbing over his groin, though Ironhide seemed to have no such hesitation. His free hand was tracing his array seam, though he hadn’t exposed his equipment.

“Very good, Prowl,” Ratchet said as his fingers continued to rub and pluck over Prowl’s anterior cluster, though it had to be sensitive in the wake of his overload.

Prowl’s engine revved. His optics returned to Ratchet, though they were hazy. His hips moved in little circles with Ratchet’s fingers. He ex-vented shakily.

“Now I want another,” Ratchet murmured.

His thumb pressed circles on Prowl’s nub, but his fingers moved down, two stroking over Prowl’s swollen rim before they plunged inside. Prowl whined, thighs trembling, his lips parting in a breathy ex-vent.

“Y-yes, Ratchet,” he stammered, his doorwings twitching restlessly behind his shoulders. His field, what little of it Wheeljack could sense, turned liquid with pleasure. His hips moved in stuttered bursts, riding Ratchet’s fingers.

He was beautiful. Wheeljack couldn’t help but be enraptured, almost sorry that he wasn’t allowed to record this in any way. He would have to do with his memory alone, when tucked away in his private berth, whimpering around the toy shoved in his valve.

Prowl was gorgeous. His submission to Ratchet even more so, and the hungry rocks of his hips were intoxicating. He shivered and shook, biolights pulsing, valve spilling lubricant, as Ratchet continued to press hard circles on his nub. Prowl sucked in vent after vent, optics hazy, but focused on Ratchet.

Prowl licked his lips, doorwings fluttering. His valve lips were puffy and swollen, his anterior node increasing in size. His vents turned ragged, his little moans staticky.

Wheeljack’s own vents stuttered. He found himself leaning forward and forward, until Ironhide’s hand on his chestplate shoved him back.

“Ought get ya a seatbelt like the humans got,” Ironhide muttered, subvocal, too quiet for Prowl to pick up, as distracted as he was

Wheeljack shot him a glare, but it melted away when Prowl whimpered and made a caught sound. He looked back just in time to see Prowl jerk, another spill of static lighting up his armor in blue fire. The room filled with the scent of arousal, of overload, and Wheeljack’s in-vents sucked it up.

“Very good,” Ratchet murmured as Prowl twitched and panted on the berth.

Ratchet leaned in and nuzzled Prowl’s helm, even as he slowly withdrew his fingers from Prowl’s valve, the red digits liberally streaked with lubricant. Prowl whimpered, his hips rising as little as they were capable, as though chasing Ratchet’s fingers.

“Y-your fingers…” Prowl mumbled, his optics hazy and his ventilations coarse.

Ratchet leaned back, blinking innocently. “Yes?” He lifted his hand, admiring the lubricant drenching his fingers and now dripping down his palm and wrist. “They are quite dirty, aren’t they. I do believe that’s your fault, love. Care to clean them for me?”

Prowl’s tongue swept over lips before they parted in silent offer and Wheeljack had to swallow a moan as Ratchet’s fingers painted lubricant over Prowl’s lips. Prowl made a hungry noise, mouth chasing after Ratchet’s fingers before he sucked them into his mouth. The noisy smack of his lips and glossa over them might as well have been a taunt.

Wheeljack’s vents gusted scorching air.

Beside him, Ironhide chuckled so quietly it was nearly inaudible. “You’re so fraggin’ predictable,” he murmured.

“Shut up,” Wheeljack said.

Prowl moaned just then and Wheeljack’s attention snapped back toward him. His hands formed fists in his lap as he watched Ratchet slowly withdraw his fingers from Prowl’s mouth, the tips of them lingering on Prowl’s bottom lip.

“Mmm, much better,” Ratchet said, his voice humming with approval.

Prowl undulated in his bonds. “I didn’t mean…” He shuddered, and his valve visibly contracted, lubricant oozing free, as his biolights fitfully pulsed. “I want them back.”

“Oh, is that so?” Ratchet’s hand rested on Prowl’s bumper, thumb sweeping over a headlight before it dragged down, down, ever so slowly, and Prowl trembled. “After you’ve gone through all the trouble to to make them clean? You want them back in your valve, is that it?”

“Yes,” Prowl pleaded. His fingers squeezed in and out of fists, his ventilations whooshing noisily. “Please.”

Ratchet’s hand rested on Prowl’s groin, just above his valve, the weight of his palm on the cover to Prowl’s spike.

“Tell you what,” Ratchet said with a flick to Prowl’s spike-cover before he lifted his hand, and Prowl whimpered.

Wheeljack might have echoed him.

“I have a better idea,” Ratchet continued and groped at his subspace, withdrawing a false spike that made Wheeljack’s valve clench, and he wasn’t sure if it was anticipation or dread.

The toy was thick, easily more so than was standard, and it was riddled with ridges and bumps and whorls. It looked heavy in Ratchet’s hand, like a weapon, yet the sight of it made Prowl whine, his hips canting upward, his aft glittering with dribbled lubricant.

“This, I believe, is a better substitute, don’t you think?” Ratchet asked as he nudged the rounded, bulbous tip against Prowl’s anterior node.

Prowl’s hips bucked. He whooshed a ventilation. He gnawed on his bottom lip.

“Yes, Ratchet,” he wheezed.

Yes, please, Wheeljack wanted to say. He was enraptured. He couldn’t look away.

“Would you like it, love?” Ratchet all but crooned, his words syrupy sweet, but with a devious edge to them that made Ironhide swear and shift in his chair. “Are you empty? Do you crave something inside you? So deep it touches all of those nodes and makes them sing?”

Prowl’s head jerked in a nod. Wheeljack’s optics tracked another drop of lubricant as it oozed free, dangled from the caudal lip of his valve, and drizzled further down.

“Come now, love.” Ratchet circled the head of the false spike against Prowl’s anterior cluster before he rubbed it over the entrance to Prowl’s valve. “You have to speak up so the audience can hear you. After all, there may be some question as to whether or not you truly want this.”

Ratchet’s smirk was a subtle thing, but the devious look he tossed over his shoulder in Wheeljack’s direction was far from it.

That aft.

Wheeljack ground his denta so hard he tasted sparks.

Prowl keened a moan. “I-I want it,” he said, hips jerking, the berth creaking, his engine revving and roaring. “Please, Ratchet. May I have it?”

“Of course, you may,” Ratchet purred, and the tip of the false spike pressed against the plump folds of Prowl’s rim, nudging against them with an audible squish of lubricant.

Wheeljack wheezed as Prowl’s backstrut arched, as his head tilted back, as thighs trembling. Inch by inch, the spike slid into him, and inch by nubbed inch, Prowl’s valve swallowed it. His engine roared, a whine rose in his intake, while charge crackled and danced over his armor.

He went taut, like someone caught on the edge, his face one of sheer, agonized bliss. And then he tumbled over it, whimpering as he overloaded, as the spike seated itself so deep the end was barely visible, and his rim visibly contracted around it.

Wheeljack whimpered, too, and was glad that Prowl’s pleasure was louder than he was. Ironhide blazed like a furnace next to him, his vents rattling and roaring, the shove of his palm over his array more urgent. But they both knew the rules.

They didn’t expose their equipment, but Primus how Wheeljack wanted to. He ached everywhere.

“Three,” Ratchet said, the heel of his palm keeping the false spike deep within Prowl. His other hand came into view, bearing a small device which he slipped over his own fingers. “Let’s dive right into four, shall we?”

There was a click, a buzz, and then Prowl all but shrieked, frame snapping against the berth. His hips bucked, and his knees yanked on the bindings, and his doorwings smacked the pillows behind him. His lips peeled back into a snarl over gritted denta, flashing optics vanishing behind optical shutters, and his field exploded, so hot and raw with lust that Wheeljack drowned in it.

He groaned, lolling forward, but Ironhide’s hand on his thigh was a vise, a metal-denting vise that kept him pinned in his chair, even though he knew he had to be leaking through his seams, soaking the seat of it with his lubricant.

What did that feel like, he wondered. To be catapulted straight toward another overload while still reeling from the one before it. Did it hurt?

Wheeljack couldn’t tell from Prowl’s expression or his field, which was a swirling vortex of pain-pleasure-need-want. Prowl shook in the confines of his bounds, his vents heaving, his plating lifted away from his protoform.

Barely could Wheeljack hear the soft buzz of the vibrating device Ratchet circled over his swollen, angry anterior node. Two fingers kept the thick false spike deep in Prowl’s valve, no doubt grinding it against his ceiling node, his calipers struggling to clasp around it.

Prowl whined, a high, needy sound, and he bucked harshly. His optics flashed, lubricant seeping out from around the false spike, and his field flooded the room with heat. He collapsed back into the pillows as Ratchet’s fingers moved away, the vibrator deactivated, leaving them a clear view of Prowl’s flickering, swollen nub.

“That’s four,” Ratchet said, still impressively calm. Wheeljack admired his control. He didn’t know how Ratchet was resisting the pretty sight Prowl made. “Do you want another?”

Prowl moaned, his head lolling, his armor clattering. “N-no, Ratchet.”

“Then it’s a shame that’s not your call to make,” Ratchet said and the low buzz of the vibrator became loud, as it was reactivated and intensified.

Prowl whimpered. “N-no…” He twitched in his bonds, his expression pained. “Hurts.”

“I know it does,” Ratchet said, calmly, terribly calm and in control. “And it burns. Like the press of an iron, yes?”

Prowl jerked his head in a nod.

“A fire so hot it burns cold,” Ratchet murmured, relentless as he rubbed the vibrator over Prowl’s anterior node, so swollen it had doubled in size. “A pleasure so consuming it becomes pain, until it rebounds back again. Am I right?”

Prowl’s optics shuttered. He whined.

Ratchet leaned closer. “I’m talking to you, love,” he growled. “Are you listening to me?”

Prowl’s optics snapped back open. His hands were in such tight fists that his knuckles ached. “Y-yes, R-R-Ratchet.”

“Then you’re going to do as I say and give me another overload,” Ratchet demanded.

Prowl’s armor rattled. “I can’t,” he gasped, his optics bleeding color. His hips jerked, engine roaring, the scent of hot metal so thick in the air. “I can’t. P-please, d-don’t.”

“It wasn’t a request,” Ratchet said.

Prowl whimpered.

Wheeljack almost lurched out of his seat, but Ironhide’s hand on his thigh kept him pinned. He sucked in several ventilations, realizing that at some point he’d matched his own to Prowl’s frantic struggle, and it left him dizzy.

He was hot, scorching, both valve and spike demanding attention. As much as he wanted to jump across the room, fling open those restraints, and soothe Prowl’s aches.

“Don’t,” Ironhide said.

Wheeljack almost whined himself.

“You seem to have forgotten the point of this,” Ratchet said, his finger circling and circling, pinning that angry vibration against Prowl’s pitiful node.

Prowl sobbed, his face turning, tucking into his own shoulder. His optics were squeezed shut, oral vents desperately sucked through his mouth.

“Punishment, love, is not meant to be enjoyed.” Ratchet’s circles became tighter, more focused, as though seeking the most sensitive angle and aggressively assaulting it. “And I am meant to be obeyed. So you will overload again. Understand?”

Prowl’s answer was to whine, his engine making a pathetic sound. His face was hidden, but his hips twitched and jerked. His cooling fans rattled, his legs and thighs visibly shaking.

Ratchet leaned in close to Prowl’s face, pressing his forehead to Prowl’s chevron. His fingers continued their assault on Prowl’s anterior node.

“I want your overload,” Ratchet almost hissed, his tone firm and commanding, for all that affection peered at the most distant edges. “And you will give it to me. Now.”

Prowl shrieked through gritted denta. His entire frame jolted, hands clenched into creaking fists, valve folds visibly contracting around the end of the false spike. The charge that leapt out from his substructure was electric and lit up the room.

“Mmm. Thank you, love,” Ratchet said with a nuzzle to Prowl’s face. His fingers slid away from Prowl’s anterior node, the vibrator still faintly buzzing. “Almost done.”

Almost? Wheeljack nearly choked on a ventilation.

Prowl moaned dully, his head lolling. “Hurts,” he mumbled.

“I know.” Ratchet shifted, sliding away from Prowl, but only so that he could climb onto the berth.

He shoved the pillows aside as he put himself in their place, cradling Prowl between his legs and against his front. His arms curled around Prowl’s sides and dipped down between the tactician’s thighs, delicately framing Prowl’s stuffed and swollen valve.

Ratchet tilted his head against Prowl’s, his expression a mixture of devilish need and proud affection. One hand stroked around Prowl’s rim, teasing the soaked, swollen mesh. The other, with the vibrator, returned to Prowl’s anterior node, though he only circled the housing around it.

“I think you have more in you, love,” Ratchet said with a smirk and a glance to Wheeljack and Ironhide. “I think you’re going to give me one more. Just so we both know that you are sorry for your misbehavior.”

Prowl’s ventilations hitched. His optics unshuttered by half, becoming slits of dim blue. “No, Ratchet. Please.” He whimpered, hips attempting to twitch away from Ratchet’s hands. “I can’t.”

“And who decides that, hm? Certainly not you.” Ratchet’s fingers gently stroked over Prowl’s array, circling in closer and closer to the blazing heat of his puffy node. “Besides, you don’t want to disappoint your audience, do you? Go on. Look at them.”

Wheeljack’s vents caught in his intake. He froze. His internals throbbed with heat as Prowl lifted his head achingly slow, his gaze turning on both Wheeljack and Ironhide. His faceplate filled with heat, darkening in color, but his valve pulsed and his field throbbed so prettily with arousal.

Prowl’s glossa flicked over his lips, even as he shook in Ratchet’s arms.

“You’re beautiful, love. They know it and I know it. I think they believe you’re contrite, too,” Ratchet continued, something hypnotizing in his words, in the tender touches that gradually turned more and more aggressive.

The vibrator was buzzing again, oh so lightly, getting closer and closer to Prowl’s nub. Prowl whimpered, still trying to twitch his hips away, but there was nowhere to go.

“Another overload, and I’ll start to believe it, too,” Ratchet insisted, less urge and more command, the vibrator coming perilously near to Prowl’s nub.

Prowl visibly sobbed. “Don’t want to,” he said, optics hazy, ventilations coming sharper and faster. “Can’t.”

“You can and you will,” Ratchet insisted and applied the vibrator to Prowl’s nub, direct where before it had been a tease.

Prowl keened, head tossing back, frame thrashing in his bindings as he overloaded, lightning snarling out from beneath his armor.

Wheeljack thought Ratchet would back off then. Surely he could smell the scorched metal, the bitterness of hot lubricant, the ozone of a burnt circuit. But no, if anything, Ratchet became more relentless. He plunged the false spike in and out of Prowl’s valve, leaning harder with the vibrator against Prowl’s node, and Prowl’s keening turned to a shriek.

His back bowed, into a sharp parabolic curve that Wheeljack was amazed he was capable of. He must have overloaded again, if the need boiling in his field was any indication. So soon on the heels of the one before! Could it be anything but agony at this point?

Wheeljack panted, enraptured, unable to take his optics away. He drank in the sight of Prowl thrashing, his cries sinful in Wheeljack’s audials.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Prowl wailed, the mumbling litany nearly incomprehensible. He sounded wrecked. “Please!”

And still, Ratchet persisted. “Almost,” he said, breathless and fierce, his optics so bright and dangerous. “One more. You can do it.”

Prowl’s frame creaked, his doorwings battering against Ratchet’s front. He’d squeezed his optics back shut, his denta clenched, his field begging for relief.

“Come on, love,” Ratchet insisted, vibrator so fast and strong that the sound echoed in Wheeljack’s audials, made his processor spin. “Last one.”

Prowl’s head jerked back, his intake bared, and his entire frame went taut, frozen as if caught in time. His mouth opened in a soundless cry, even his vents stalled. The brightest flare of charge erupted over his armor, snapping back against Ratchet’s. He froze, arrested by ecstasy, frame twitching so minutely it could barely be seen, until he abruptly dropped, collapsing back against Ratchet.

His cooling fans started up again, roaring. His vents hiccuped. But he was slack in Ratchet’s arms, unconscious.

Wheeljack leaned forward, his spark throbbing. Ironhide’s hand was a heavy weight on his chestplate, but he itched to do something. Anything. Prowl had sounded so desperate, so hurt.


He startled at the abrupt comm. His gaze swung back to Ratchet.

//He’s fine,// Ratchet said, though he wasn’t looking anywhere near Wheeljack. //He’s in a reset. He’ll wake shortly. So be quiet. I don’t want your voice to be the first thing he hears when he onlines.//

Even as he commed Wheeljack, he was inactivating the vibrator and tossing it to the berth beside him. His hands were gently petting over Prowl’s frame, loosening the bindings but not removing them completely.

//Ratch, I don’t–//

//If you have questions, I’ll answer them later,// Ratchet replied, sounding distracted. //For now, just be still and silent. Close your optics if you can’t bear to watch.//

Ironhide’s hand slid from Wheeljack’s chestplate down to his knee. He patted it carefully, quietly, before he leaned in. “This ain’t nothin’ new,” he murmured, so quiet it probably didn’t carry past Wheeljack’s audials. “Just follow my cues ‘nd I promise Ratch won’t get mad at’cha.”

Wheelljack made a noncommittal noise, even as a soft sound emerged from Prowl and he started to stir. His optics lit, dim at first, but then gaining brightness. He made a questioning sound, to which Ratchet immediately noticed.

“Shhh, I have you,” Ratchet was murmuring, every touch gentle and careful as he unknotted the bindings and eased Prowl’s limbs out of their stiff posture.

Prowl’s mouth opened, but his vocalizer produced static interspersed with a whimper. Ratchet moved his limbs for him as Prowl rested against his chassis, his expression one of exhaustion and satisfaction.

“I’m so proud of you, love,” Ratchet said, his attention on removing the bonds and easing Prowl’s limbs. “You did perfectly. You were so obedient. So beautiful.”

Prowl’s face tucked into Ratchet’s intake, little tremors racing through his frame. Yet, Ratchet continued to speak to him.

It was a constant litany of reassurance, and Ratchet’s field echoed it, pulsing love and comfort and pride, wrapping around Prowl like a blanket. Prowl clutched at him, his face streaked with optical fluid, his thighs trembling, but he wouldn’t bring his legs together.

Wheeljack doubted he could. His valve was so swollen it had to be tender. His node was a bright, angry color, nearly doubled in size. Was there even a drop of lubricant left in Prowl’s tank? He didn’t know.

Prowl whimpered, again, as Ratchet eased the false spike from his valve. It was liberally coated in lubricant, and Prowl’s valve contracted in it’s wake. Yet, he was also loose and open, his valve folds swollen, and some of the interior of his valve visible to Wheeljack and Ironhide both.

The toy was set aside. Ratchet slipped a single finger into Prowl’s valve, shushing him again when he whimpered.

“Shhh, it’s all right. I’m just checking for damage, but there is none, as I knew there wouldn’t be.” Ratchet pressed a kiss to the side of Prowl’s face. “Don’t I always take care of you, love?”

Prowl gave no answer. At least none that Wheeljack could hear.

Wheeljack ex-vented quietly, hoping not to gain Prowl’s attention and disturb him. He leaned back in his chair, feeling jittery and out of sorts.

The tension was gone from the room. Wheeljack shifted again, uncomfortable for an entirely different reason. Ratchet’s murmurings were so sweet, so loving, that Wheeljack now felt like an intruder of a different sort.

He wondered if there were supposed to go, and followed Ironhide’s advice, looking at the other mech for guidance. Ironhide shook his head and made a shushing noise.

They would wait then.

Wheeljack looked at Ratchet and Prowl again, who were curled together on the berths as lovers might in a post-coital glow. If it weren’t for Prowl’s subtly parted thighs, and subsequent bare valve, it might have felt like a different story.

“There we go, love, all better,” Ratchet said, at last, and he patted Prowl’s chestplate, over his Autobot symbol. “You can recharge soon, I promise. First, you need to thank our guests.”

Prowl stirred, his hazy optics shifting toward Ironhide and Wheeljack. There was no embarrassment, just a bleary acknowledgment.

“Thank you,” he rasped, obedient.

“Yer welcome, Prowl,” Ironhide said as he leveraged himself to his feet, though Wheeljack did not fail to miss the way his knees wobbled. “Ya did good, mech. Proud of ya.”

Prowl’s face pinked, and he tucked it back into Ratchet’s intake.

Ironhide nudged Wheeljack with an elbow, and Wheeljack lurched to his feet with less grace than he usually had.

“Uh, yeah. Happy ta help,” Wheeljack said, rubbing the back of his head.

Ironhide elbowed him again, coughing a vent.

Wheeljack worked his intake. “And, uh, good job! You’re forgiven.” His indicators flashed, and he hoped it was an encouraging color.

The look Ratchet gave him was both contemplative and tense. Something to worry about later, Wheeljack supposed. He and Ratchet were gonna have to have a serious talk, because Wheeljack wasn’t sure about what all he saw, and he kinda wished he’d had a more… in-depth warning.

“Thank you, Wheeljack. Ironhide.” Ratchet nodded at them both before his attention turned back to Prowl.

Wheeljack took that for dismissal. And he was right, because Ironhide snagged his elbow and tugged him toward the door. Wheeljack only looked over his shoulder once, to see Ratchet and Prowl kissing. Gentle-like, as though they were two lovers who’d just been sharing the sweetest of spark-merges.

It boggled the processor.

In the hallway, the door beeping a lock behind them, Ironhide didn’t so much as pause. He just made a beeline for the storage room across the hall and honestly, Wheeljack was pretty damn grateful.

He didn’t know entirely how he felt, save that his knees trembled, his valve ached, his spike throbbed, and he was pretty sure he’d left drips behind him. He wanted to overload, needed to, and he all but threw himself at Ironhide once the storage shut behind them.

“Frag me,” he gasped, pawing at Ironhide’s chest, trying to hitch a leg around the larger mech’s waist.

Ironhide growled, grabbed his aft, and lifted him up. Wheeljack’s panel snapped aside mere seconds before Ironhide pinned him against the wall, and his spike filled Wheeljack in one quick, deep push.

Wheeljack moaned, head knocking back against the wall, vents roaring. His valve quivered with relief, clutching hungrily at Ironhide’s spike, and he moaned again when Ironhide didn’t bother to tease either of them. He pounded into Wheeljack, fragging him against the wall, no grace, just mindless pursuit of pleasure.

Thank fragging Primus.

Overload came far too quickly, Wheeljack’s vents gasping as he keened. He writhed on Ironhide’s spike, even as the larger mech spilled hotly into him, hips pumping in deep, satisfying grinds.

“Gahhh.” Ironhide’s forehead knocked against the wall beside Wheeljack’s head. He ex-vented hotly. “Primus, what they do ta me,” he groaned.

Wheeljack tightened his thighs around Ironhide’s waist and rolled his hips. “Again,” he demanded, urgent, his valve still cycling desperately, his spark throbbing.

He didn’t precisely know why, except that he wanted the pleasure to chase away all else. To remind himself that this was supposed to be fun, and it was. But it had also been optic-opening and revelatory and he kind of didn’t want to think right now.

Ironhide chuckled. “One more,” he said. “And then we go to a room and a real berth so ya can frag the spark outta me, too.”

“Deal.” His heels drummed against the back of Ironhide’s thighs, even as Ironhide’s rumbling engine growled through them both.

Wheeljack panted, processor spinning as Ironhide started to thrust once more, the heavy drag of his spike the perfect sensation and distraction both. He tightened his arms over Ironhide’s shoulders and gave in to it.

The rest he’d worry about later.


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