[G1] Behind the Scenes 08

Part Eight – Take Five

Ironhide considered himself the luckiest Autobot around.

Not only did he have the best group of friends and berthmates, but he had a longstanding invitation to watch Ratchet and Prowl anytime they were up for a show. That in itself was a gift. But now, Bluestreak and Jazz had started to play, too, and they had sent him an invitation that he was nearly giddy to accept.

“I know you’re interested in fisting,” Bluestreak had said with a devilish grin. “And I also know Prowl doesn’t enjoy it so you’ll never get to see it from them. Lucky for you, Jazz is eager to put on a little show.”

Ironhide had groaned, his spike surging behind his panel at the mere suggestion of a kink he’d been fascinated by for quite some time, but had been unable to see for himself. He didn’t have a steady enough partner to bring up such an extensive kink with, and Ratchet had already told him it was something they never indulged in.

How Bluestreak had learned of Ironhide’s interest, he had no clue. He suspected Ratchet was to blame. He and Bluestreak were as thick as thieves sometimes. Devious. The both of them.

“I’ll be there,” Ironhide had replied, his voice a touch hoarse, an urge to get back to his quarters as soon as possible rising up inside of him.

“I know you will be,” Bluestreak said with a laugh. He rose up on his pedes and kissed Ironhide on the cheek, the brush of his lips a tease, a reminder of all the fun they used to have. “See you Thursday.”

And then he’d left and Ironhide had indeed gone back to his room, hand striping his spike to the tune of two overloads that left his knees shaking and his vents gasping for cooler air. He’d collapsed backward onto his berth, thinking that his friends and their kinky ways would be the death of him.

But oh, what a way to go.

Ironhide arrived Thursday precisely on time, though if anyone asked, it wasn’t because anticipation had simmered in his lines all day. It was because he believed in punctuality. No more. No less.

He buzzed the door and heard the click of it unlocking remotely; invitation extended. Ironhide invited himself inside, though quickly. If this was to be anything like Prowl and Ratchet, no doubt he didn’t want to give a random passerby a glimpse of the debauchery within.

The door slid shut behind him as the scent of lubricant and arousal slammed into him. Oh, he’d been right. He’d been so very right.

Ironhide’s spike surged behind his panel as he took in the sight waiting him.

Jazz’s quarters were a single, and he’d dragged his berth to the middle of the room rather than shoving it up against a wall. He currently laid perpendicular across it, his upper half propped up by a wedge-shaped pillow. His legs were spread wide, his own hands locked around his thighs, keeping him displayed and open for Bluestreak.

The wet, squelching noises of fingers and lubricant made Ironhide’s array buzz with fire. He watched as Bluestreak steadily worked fingers into Jazz’s valve, fluids running down Jazz’s aft and dripping to the floor, his rim swollen and his anterior node thick and bright.

Jazz panted, his optics dim, head tilted back against the pillow. His hips made little canting rocks toward Bluestreak’s fingers. His valve rim fluttered as though struggling to restrain his overload.

Primus, he was a sexy thing. How had Ironhide never gotten to berth him?

Bluestreak withdrew four fingers with a squelch of lubricant and rubbed his thumb over Jazz’s main node in little circles. Jazz whimpered, his fingers trembling on his thighs. Only then did Bluestreak look over his shoulder to greet Ironhide.

“You can come closer, you know,” he said with that cheeky tone Ironhide had come to love and loathe all at once. Mostly because it meant a very good time. “I won’t bite you for having a more personal look.”

Ironhide chuckled and crossed the floor, glad for his own restraint that kept his already throbbing spike nice and contained. “Well, I didn’t want to upset your boundaries.”

“Nnn. Don’t have any,” Jazz gasped out, his head lolling. His valve rim quivered as Bluestreak stroked it, lubricant making obscene noises.

“Well, you’re half-right anyway,” Bluestreak said, his tone fond. He slipped two fingers into Jazz’s valve, and he did something that made Jazz’s backstrut arch. “Ready for the whole thing, pet? Now that your audience is here, I mean.”

Jazz’s glossa swept over his lips. “I been ready, ya tease,” he said, and his thighs spread incrementally wider, his vents whooshing scorched air.

Bluestreak clucked his glossa and gave a light smack to Jazz’s valve, making him jolt. “Don’t you sass me, pet.”

Jazz’s visor flashed. If anything the punishment seemed to make him hotter. He gasped and rolled his hips, making a low moan in his intake.

“He behaves so well,” Ironhide murmured.

Bluestreak rolled his optics. “Don’t remind me.” His free hand reached for the berth by Jazz’s hip, lifting a bottle of lubricant into view. “We’re working on it.”

He tipped the bottle over his already damp fingers, splashing lubricant everywhere. Jazz watched with a bright visor, a hungry one. Ironhide had to admit that a similar look was probably on his own face.

“I have faith in you,” Ironhide said, though he probably sounded distracted. He was too busy watching as Bluestreak plunged three dripping fingers into Jazz with ease. There was a loud, squelching noise.

Jazz moaned. His ventilations hitched.

Bluestreak removed his fingers, added a fourth and pushed them back into Jazz’s valve. Jazz whined, backstrut arching, feet kicking at the berth as his fingers trembled.

“Please,” Jazz begged, restless against the berth. “Please, Blue. Please.”

Ironhide groaned, his hands forming into fists. They were both going to kill him.

Bluestreak chuckled. “I don’t know which of you I’m torturing more,” he said, but he withdrew his fingers and formed a cone with his hand. “Tell me if it hurts, pet.”

“It won’t!” Jazz sounded desperate. His field was a wild and heavy pull of lust, dragging against Ironhide’s own.

He licked his lips, gaze locked where the triangle of Bluestreak’s fingers started to ease into Jazz’s valve. Lubricant squelched and dribbled. Jazz sucked in a long and slow ventilation, his frame shuddering as Bluestreak’s hand eased into his valve, bit by bit, until all was swallowed but his wrist. There he lingered, turning his hand back and forth, rubbing along Jazz’s rim.

Jazz moaned, visor flashing, head tilting back. “M-more,” he pleaded.

Ironhide found himself leaning closer, and then quietly chuckled. Because he couldn’t very well blame Wheeljack for wanting a closer look now, could he? Not when he was near enough to touch Jazz now, and certainly near enough to feel the heat of Bluestreak’s ventilations.

The stretch of Jazz’s valve around Bluestreak’s hand was intoxicating. And when Blue dumped more lube over his wrist and lower arms, only to ease his hand a little deeper, Jazz’s helpless whimpering dragged a soft sound out of Ironhide. His hands drew into fists as he denied his spike’s request to pressurize.

Bluestreak’s free hand rubbed gently on Jazz’s groin, over his closed spike panel and occasionally brushing his anterior node. His other hand continued to move, each forward push incrementally urging his hand deeper, until his wrist vanished and his forearm glistened with lubricant.

Jazz’s ventilations turned haggard. His hips moved in urgent rocks, his hands clenching on his thighs so hard, Ironhide swore his armor dented. He made low keening noises, ones Ironhide better called a mewl, and his abdominal armor bulged slightly as Bluestreak’s hand worked even deeper, only to pause and linger.

Ironhide watched, enraptured, as Jazz’s abdominal armor seemed to shift.

“What are ya doin’?” he asked and knew his voice was filled with static.

Bluestreak smirked, though his own optics were bright and dazed with arousal. “It’s called fisting for a reason, ‘Hide.” His glossa swept over his lips. “And there’s nothing like grinding over a ceiling node with your knuckles.”

Jazz seemed to agree, as he shuddered from head to foot, his heels drumming against his aft, the berth creaking beneath him.

“Master, please,” he begged, and Ironhide had never heard him sound so desperate before. It did things to him, things that made his engine rev. “Can I overload?”

Bluestreak purred at him. “Of course you can, pet.” His fingers swept over Jazz’s closed spike panel again, tracing the circumference of it before he drummed the tips over it. Jazz keened and arched his backstrut. “Give us a show.”

Ironhide groaned and shoved the heel of his palm over his own panel, even as Jazz keened and all but convulsed. His valve rim visibly contracted around Bluestreak’s forearm, his belly armor bulging, as charge crackled out over his frame in jagged bursts.

And then Bluestreak curled forward, latched his mouth around Jazz’s anterior node, and gave it a harsh, audible suck.

Jazz’s entire body jolted as if he’d been struck, and he nearly kicked Bluestreak as one overload must have catapulted directly into a second. He shrieked, head tossing back, as he rode Bluestreak’s arm through the jagged pulses of his overload.

Ironhide ground his denta until he tasted sparks, heel of his palm shoving over his own panel, scrubbing against the head of his spike doming the thin metal covering. His knees shook, and his own ventilating was equally uneven.

Bluestreak leaned back, licking his lips with a smug grin, as Jazz collapsed into the berth, twitching, his fans roaring. He panted audibly, little whines rising from his engine as it clonked and sputtered, his valve rim twitching around Bluestreak’s arm.

His slowly retracting arm at that.

Ironhide watched, enraptured, as Bluestreak eased his arm, and then his wrist, and then his fingers free. Lubricant glistened on his armor, but far more appealing was the sight of Jazz’s valve, loose and open, generously seeping lubricant and nodes pulsing faintly. His rim twitched, and in the shadows of the interior, Ironhide swore he could see Jazz’s internal biolights flickering unevenly.

“He’s so open,” Ironhide murmured. He swallowed down a moan and rubbed his panel. He slid a foot back, intending to gracefully dismiss himself before his spike rejected his overrides.

“Want to touch him?”

The question stopped his processing. “Huh?” Ironhide said, optics wide as he swung his attention to Bluestreak.

Bluestreak grinned and reached for him with a hand still dripping lubricant. “Similar but not the same,” he said with a cheeky wink as his fingers curled around Ironhide’s nearest wrist and tugged his hand toward the heat and damp of Jazz’s array. “My pet likes for his viewers to be hands on.”

On, he said, and then proceeded to nudge Ironhide’s hand toward Jazz’s valve, outstretched fingers brushing over the soaked rim first and foremost. Ironhide shuddered, his vents roaring, as he traced Jazz’s valve exterior.

Jazz moaned, head lolling, but his hips tilting toward Ironhide’s touch. His thighs had drifted together a little in his post-overload haze, but a tap from Bluestreak’s fingers onto his, had him trembling as he returned to his original position. His valve fluttered beneath Ironhide’s fingers, producing a fresh wave of lubricant.

Ironhide groaned, aloud this time. “Primus, I guess that’s my cue,” he said as he retrieved his fingers, though he swore the damp of Jazz’s lubricant stuck to them, hot and sticky. “That’s about as much teasin’ as I can take.”

“Who said it’s a tease?” Bluestreak purred in an alluring tone he had to have learned from Ratchet. “Like I said, similar but not the same. In fact, if you really want, the other end could stand to be occupied right now.”

Ironhide’s jaw might have visibly dropped. And his spike might have sprung free, entirely without his permission.

“Are ya serious?” he demanded.

Jazz moaned.

Bluestreak moved between Jazz’s thighs, freeing his own spike and rubbing the rounded tip of it over Jazz’s stretched valve, his pet automatically tilting toward him. “You’re not obligated, but you’re more than welcome,” he said and drummed his fingers over Jazz’s spike panel. “Open your mouth, pet. You need to be considerate to our guest.”

Ironhide’s spike throbbed. He squeezed the base to keep himself from overloading then and there, a drop of pre-fluid already dribbling at the tip.

Jazz whined. There must have been some hidden command in the words because he let go of his hold of his thighs, and reached up and over his head, grabbing hold of the pillow propping him upright. He yanked it free and tossed it to the side, his upper half collapsing backward on the berth, putting his mouth at the perfect height to make use.

Ironhide walked around the berth as if in a daze, his spike pulling him toward Jazz, who had indeed tipped his head back and opened his mouth. His visor was a bright blaze of arousal, even as his engine purred, his master continuing to tease his valve with little rubs and frots of his spike.

“You’re sure?” Ironhide reminded himself to have some restraint. Even if his spike throbbed, and kept trying to urge itself toward Jazz’s mouth, the smaller mech’s glossa sweeping over his lips as if trying to entice Ironhide.

It was working.

“Positively,” Bluestreak said as Jazz’s ex-vents ghosted over the tip of Ironhide’s spike, hot and wet. The head of his spike breached Jazz’s valve just then, and he slid inside, nice and slow, the noisy burble of an overabundance of lubricant making Ironhide squeeze his spike harder.

Like the Pit, he’d overload without even getting a taste of Jazz’s mouth.

//We discussed all of this before we invited you,// Bluestreak added over a narrowband comm, though he wasn’t even looking at Ironhide, his gaze instead focused on himself, slowly sinking into Jazz. //I’m not offering anything Jazz hasn’t already begged me to offer. And if he changes his mind, I’ll let you know.//

Jazz strained toward Ironhide as if he’d hacked their private conversation, though surely he knew better.

“Please, sir,” he said, in a vocal tone that did squirmy things to Ironhide’s internals. He reached for Ironhide as well, though he stopped just short of touching him. “Let me suck ya off. I promise to do a good job.”

Well then.

Never let it be said that Ironhide was one to ignore an opportunity begging him.

“Sure thing,” Ironhide said in what he hoped was a disinterested tone that gave no hint to how much he just wanted to throw himself at their offer. “Help yourself.”

Jazz moaned, and his hands clasped around Ironhide’s hips. He pulled as he tilted his head further back, lips and glossa reaching. Ironhide shivered as Jazz’s mouth closed around the head of his spike and then drew him deeper, deeper, until he was surrounded by wet heat, and Jazz’s lips pressed to his spike housing.

Sweet Primus on a pogostick.

Ironhide heaved a stuttering ventilation, trying desperately to hold on to some measure of control. He toppled forward, catching his weight on the berth, hands to either side of Jazz’s frame, and his spike rolled against the back of Jazz’s intake. Jazz moaned around him, his field one of hunger. Ironhide didn’t even have to thrust; Jazz did all the work, swallowing around him, pushing and pulling on his hips, sucking on him as if he was the last, best treat in the universe.

Ironhide panted, his audials catching wetter sounds, and he turned fuzzy vision back toward Bluestreak, who was stroking out of Jazz at a faster and faster pace. He’d grabbed Jazz by the thighs, just above faint imprints of Jazz’s own hand, and pushed them up toward Jazz’s chassis. Lucky Jazz was such a flexible mech, pinned between them as he was.

Bluestreak’s ventilations quickened. “No overloading, pet,” he warned as he slammed into Jazz, the wet slap of metal on metal as intoxicating as the garbled sounds of pleasure Jazz made. Each forward thrust rocked Jazz against Ironhide, making the head of his spike roll all over the softness of Jazz’s intake.

Jazz whimpered, his hips rocking into Bluestreak’s thrust. Lubricant trickled out of the corners of his mouth, his lips shiny with it. His glossa did amazing things to Ironhide’s spike, and he throbbed harder, fingers clenching in the berthcovers.

Frag stamina. He wouldn’t last a handful more thrusts at this rate.

Ironhide groaned. “Slag. Ain’t gonna last like this,” he admitted, and didn’t care if either of the two mechs smirked at him. They both oughta know how they hot they were. “Where can I…?”

“In his mouth or on his face,” Bluestreak completed his thought before Ironhide could figure out a way to phrase his question. “Frankly, he looks good with either.”


Ironhide growled a curse, the berthcovers rending with an audible noise. His head dropped, hips pumping forward, pushing deep as overload snatched a hold of him and sucked out his transfluid in several thick, ropey bursts. His vents roared, his field burst, and Jazz greedily gulped him down.

Sheer force of effort had Ironhide pulling back at the last second, so he could watch the last precious spurt paint Jazz’s face. It landed on his cheek and slid down, pooling against the bottom edge of his visor. Jazz panted, lubricant leaking out of the corner of his mouth, his fingers squeezing Ironhide’s hips. His glossa swept over his lips.

“Nice,” Bluestreak said approvingly as he slammed into Jazz, rocking him harder and harder across the berth.

Jazz made a lovely whining noise, backstrut arching. His field reached out, tugging. Bluestreak looked down at him with a mixture of affection and lust, before he abruptly pulled out of Jazz and started fisting his spike furiously. It only took a few pumps before he overloaded, decorating Jazz’s array with his transfluid.

Jazz whimpered. He released Ironhide’s hips – and Ironhide tried not to regret their loss. His hands crept down toward his array, but hovered there, as if waiting for permission. He squirmed, thighs still caught in Bluestreak’s grip, Ironhide’s transfluid still a wet smear on his cheek.

“Master, can I–”

“If you give me your spike,” Bluestreak said, cutting off Jazz’s plea. He thumbed Jazz’s spike panel in little circles.

It instantly sprang open, Jazz’s spike jutting into the air, fiercely rigid. Bluestreak’s fingers wrapped around his spike, tightening into a squeeze, and Jazz keened. His frame forming a parabolic curve, his hands clawing at the air.

“Master!” Jazz’s head tossed back, his visor dim and unfocused.

Ironhide tried to remember to ventilate. He still held his own spike, the half-pressurized length twitching madly. He felt captured by them, by Jazz’s desperation and Bluestreak’s half-smug, half-driven expression.

Bluestreak stroked Jazz with fast, squeezing pulls, dribbles of pre-fluid staining his fingers. “You know what I want, pet,” he said, optics bright and hungry as he looked at Jazz. “Overload for me.”

Jazz keened. His entire frame trembled as his head tossed back and charge crackled out over his armor. His hands slammed to the berth, fingers snarling in the cover and twisting about the fabric. Desperate noises rattled out of his intake.

Ironhide growled a moan.

And Bluestreak, face set with determination, dropped Jazz’s other leg and plunged four fingers all at once into Jazz’s soaking valve, wrist twisted just right to grind against a node cluster set against Jazz’s rim interior.

Jazz howled and thrashed. He overloaded, spike spurting transfluid up until it spattered down on Bluestreak’s fingers, onto his pelvic armor, his belly, and his chestplate.

Ironhide groaned, long and low, as his spike repressurized quickly, throbbing in his loose grip. He didn’t act on it, however. He only allowed himself a few shallow strokes.

He would wait for an offer. He wouldn’t presume.

“Good boy,” Bluestreak was murmuring as he fondled Jazz’s spike, massaging him through the last tremors of overload.

He withdrew his lubricant slick fingers from Jazz’s valve, and Ironhide’s mouth watered. The whole room smelled of lust and arousal and lubricant, and it filled Ironhide’s vents and chemoreceptors until he felt dizzy with it.

“T-thank you, s-sir,” Jazz slurred, his head lolling on the edge of the berth. Little shivers made his armor twitch, small bursts of static leapt out from his substructure.

Bluestreak’s glossa swept over his lips. He finally loosed his hold of Jazz’s spike, his fingers switching to gently pet over Jazz’s entire array, until they were sticky with mingled lubricant and transfluid.

“Well?” Bluestreak asked, his tone oddly conversational. “Did you enjoy the show?” His askance look at Ironhide was just shy of smug.

Ironhide chuffed and squeezed his spike. “I think the transfluid on his face tells ya that I did,” he drawled. “And I thank ya for lettin’ me participate.”

For once, his processor helpfully added though Ironhide tucked the thought away. It seemed Bluestreak and Jazz were more willing to include active participation. No way was Ironhide going to potentially jeopardize that for the future.

Bluestreak chuckled. “You’re welcome.” He fondled Jazz’s anterior node, and Jazz squeaked, shifting about on the berth, his engine kicking out of it’s nearly-soundless idle to a rolling purr. “And if you’re lucky, I’ll let you fist him yourself next time.” He gave Ironhide a sly look.

Ironhide groaned. He squeezed his spike to stop it from jerking about, spilling pre-fluid everywhere. Imagination supplied for him the very idea, and it gave him the good surges. He was never going to depressurize at this rate.

“Evil,” he said. “The both of ya.”

“Yes, he is,” Jazz said with an exhausted curve of his mouth. “Love ‘im though.”

And sweet, too. They really were. Especially when Bluestreak gave Jazz a look both sappy and indulgent.

Ironhide would forever be proud of himself for helping these two get their heads out of their afts and realize where they could find exactly who they were looking for.

For now, however, he was still standing here holding his own spike, Jazz was covered in all kinds of fluids, and maybe they oughta do something about all of that.

“The feeling’s mutual,” Bluestreak murmured with a hint of color in his cheeks before his gaze slanted to Ironhide, that edge of control causing it to gleam all over again. “And it looks as though our guest is in need of some assistance, pet.”

Jazz tilted his head to the side, his visor seeking out Ironhide, whereupon it brightened. “Want I should take care of that, Master?” he asked, licking his lips, a note of glee entering his tone.

Bluestreak purred. “Mmm. Aren’t you a generous little pet?” The heel of his palm scrubbed over Jazz’s array, grinding down on his anterior node. “Well, I suppose if the old mech still has the energy…”

Ironhide huffed at both of them. “Don’t you start with me, brat,” he growled playfully as Bluestreak laughed, his field rippling out with genuine joy.

Ironhide’s spark threatened to stutter. Jazz and Bluestreak were good for each other for that alone: Bluestreak’s happiness and Jazz’s ease.

Hands tickled over Ironhide’s hips. He felt a tug and shifted his gaze to Jazz, unsurprised to find the audacious mech unashamedly trying to pull Ironhide’s spike back toward his open mouth.

Ironhide groaned and went wherever Jazz tugged him.

He truly was the luckiest mech in the Ark, wasn’t he?


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