[G1] Behind the Scenes 10

“Hey,” said the message, seemingly innocent, but Ironhide knew better than to assume that, “interested in playing a game?”

Ironhide squinted at the text and wondered just what devious thing had crawled into Bluestreak’s processor this time, and how many overloads he’d get out of it, and whether or not he could even survive that much pleasure.

He still wondered how Jazz did it.

“Depends,” Ironhide finally responded. He didn’t want to sound too eager after all. He wasn’t desperate or anything. He had plenty of berths that welcomed him, even if he did like these games the most. “What is it?”

“I’ll let you participate,” Blue said with a winking emoticon. “I’ve got a Pretty eager to serve.”

Ironhide would never admit to the little ping his spike made when it instantly pressurized and was stopped by the locked panel in front of it. “I guess I’m not busy,” he replied with what he hoped was enough casualness to belie how suddenly eager he was. “When?”

And that was how he found himself here and now, less than ten minutes after receiving the message, on Bluestreak’s berth with the cute sniper draped atop him and kissing him senseless. Bluestreak was a good kisser. He knew just when to press, when to retreat, when to nibble, and when to lick. He made all of these adorable little humming sounds, too, like he really enjoyed kissing.

It was hardly a trial to kiss Bluestreak.

“Mmm,” Bluestreak hummed and sucked on Ironhide’s bottom lip and wriggled on top of Ironhide, sliding their armor together, all hot and heavy. “Like kissing you.”

“I noticed.” Ironhide chuckled and dragged his hands up Bluestreak’s back, tweaking the hinges of his doorwings. “But can’t help but feel like we got an audience.”

Bluestreak arched his back, doorwings canting toward Ironhide’s fingers in silent demand. “Oh, don’t mind him. He’s just here to be useful.”

Useful, he said.

Ironhide’s gaze slid to the side, where a kneeling Jazz watched them with a hungry visor, a puddle beneath him, and his hands folded in his lap. He was practically jittering with the urge to participate, but surprising obedience kept him kneeling there.

Ironhide would admit he didn’t really understand the purpose of this game or what Jazz got out of it or why he even wanted it. But he did get the rules, knew that Bluestreak had a plan that Jazz had agreed to in full, and Ironhide was here to play a part.

“Useful, eh?” Ironhide said and rolled up against Bluestreak, sliding a knee between the sniper’s legs. “How so?”

Bluestreak chuckled and nipped at his nasal ridge. “I’ll show you,” he purred before he pulled back, out of Ironhide’s arms, shifting to straddle Ironhide’s hips instead. He leaned forward, their lips inches apart, his hands braced to either side of Ironhide’s head. “I’m going to frag you tonight. You mind?”

Ironhide found Bluestreak’s hips and gave them a squeeze. “When have I ever?” he asked with a laugh. “Kinda miss my cute berth buddy, ya know?”

“Well, I kinda miss my rusty old pillow.” Bluestreaker smirked and turned his head. “Ironhide’s going to need some prep work, pet. Get to it.”



Ironhide’s engine revved with glee, even as Jazz nodded and rose to his pedes, lubricant staining his inner thighs. “Yes, master,” he said with a deferential dip of his helm.

“Make room for him, will you?” Bluestreak wriggled his hips and turned his attention back toward Ironhide. “Don’t want to make his job too difficult now?”

“No. Not at all,” Ironhide said and spread his knees across the berth, leaving enough room for Jazz to crawl between them and ex-vent hot and wet over his closed panel.

Frag making Jazz work for it. Ironhide was too eager to feel that hot mouth on his array, so he let his panel snick aside and shivered when lips descended on his anterior node cluster first. They announced themselves with a soft kiss and a nuzzle before a glossa introduced itself as well, giving his node a flick.

Ironhide groaned and felt his thighs quiver.

“Good?” Bluestreak asked.

Ironhide cycled a long ventilation as Jazz licked the length of his valve before diving in, licking and sucking and lapping and making all of these lewd, wet noises. Heat quickly spiraled in the wake of his ministrations, and lubricant trickled out, only to be caught by Jazz’s glossa.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Bluestreak murmured and nipped at Ironhide’s chin before his mouth wandered further, burrowing against the sensitive cables of Ironhide’s intake.

A barely audible click announced the appearance of Bluestreak’s spike, and Ironhide groaned as the hot length slid along his abdominal armor, smearing drops of pre-fluid in its wake. Bluestreak’s mouth worked hot pleasure on his intake as Ironhide’s hands sought the sensitive mounts for Bluestreak’s sensory panels.

They were going to kill him with pleasure, he decided, as Jazz latched onto his anterior node and gave it a deep suck, making Ironhide jerk and hiss. Jazz’s glossa immediately soothed over it, lapped down the length of his valve, and teased at his lower sensor cluster instead, with a flick, flick, flick that Ironhide’s hips twitched to follow.

Ironhide moaned and let his own spike extend, shivering as it brushed over Bluestreak’s and sent a frisson of heat licking up his backstrut.

“Oh, are we dueling with swords now?” Bluestreak asked as he pushed himself up and back, all cheeky like. His hands found both of their spikes and pressed them together in a strong stroke.

Ironhide rolled his hips and dropped his hands to Bluestreak’s thighs. “Do that again.”

“So demanding,” Bluestreak purred, but he obeyed, fisting their spikes together and pumping them in long, squeezing strokes.

A groan tore itself from Ironhide’s intake. His thighs trembled. The slow squeezes combined with Jazz’s determined licking made lust coil hotly inside of him. His valve quivered, pulsing lubricant, as lips and denta nipped at his nodes and suckled on his rim. His calipers spiraled tight, trying to clamp down on nothing, and then Jazz moved to his exterior lower node, lashing it wildly with his glossa.

Caught between them, Ironhide couldn’t do anything but shudder and groan, his valve getting wetter and hotter, his spike throbbing and soaking Bluestreak’s fingers with pre-fluid. Pleasure built and built inside of him, climbing to a larger crescendo.

Ironhide’s grip on Bluestreak’s hips tightened, stressing the metal. “Ahhh, Blue. If yer gonna frag me, better do it soon. ‘Cause yer pretty there is doin’ too good of a job.”

Bluestreak chuckled and squeezed the tip of Ironhide’s spike, his thumb teasing around the damp opening. “And here I thought you had better stamina than that,” he teased, but he half-turned and tapped Jazz on the crown of the helm. “Enough, pet. He’s ready for me.”

A parting nip to Ironhide’s anterior node and Jazz pulled back. “Yes, sir,” he said as he licked his lips, his visor bright and hungry. “What would you like me to do now, sir?”

Bluestreak shifted off Ironhide’s lap, moving instead to kneel between his thighs as Jazz scuttled to the side, getting out of his way. Ironhide had to admit he was fascinated as he watched their interplay, propping himself up on his elbows to better see.

“Hmm, that’s a good question.” Bluestreak positioned himself, his hands sliding up Ironhide’s legs, over his knees, and across the top of his thighs. His spike brushed over Ironhide’s valve, briefly nudging his swollen anterior node.

Bluestreak’s gaze shifted to Ironhide. “Is there something my pet can do for you, Ironhide?”

He hadn’t been given a script for this. His gaze darted between Jazz, who looked hungry, and Bluestreak, who looked devious. Mech had been taking far too many lessons from Ratchet, apparently.

“My spike’s pretty lonely now,” Ironhide offered, hoping it was the right choice.

Bluestreak rolled his hips again, the head of his spike barely breaching Ironhide’s valve rim, only to linger, forcing Ironhide’s rim to flutter indecisively.

“I think you’re right,” Bluestreak said. He reached out, grabbed Jazz’s jaw, sweeping a thumb over his lips. “What’s the rule, pet?”

“No overloading,” Jazz recited with a hitched breath. His hands curled into fists where they rested on his knees.

“Very good.” Bluestreak stroked under Jazz’s chin. “Now make yourself useful and give Ironhide’s spike a nice home. Hm?”

A soft moan escaped Jazz’s lips. He visibly shivered, his field flashing through the room in a quick fire of lust.

“Yes, sir.”

Jazz stirred into motion, swinging a leg over Ironhide’s frame to straddle his hips. He reached down and guided Ironhide’s spike to his valve, sinking down upon it in a slow, luxurious slide that made Ironhide’s backstrut tingle. His hands found Jazz’s waist even as Bluestreak slid his arms around Jazz from behind, hooking his chin over Jazz’s shoulder.

“There,” he purred, “nice and snug.” And then Bluestreak rolled his hips and thrust, sinking deep into Ironhide in one long, deep push.

Ironhide moaned, head tipped back, stars dancing in his optical feed. He hooked his ankles behind Bluestreak, deepening the angle so that the next rock of Bluestreak’s hips struck a cluster of nodes near the back of his valve. Doing so sent a lash of heat through his array, especially when Jazz circled his hips in a little shimmy dance that rippled up and down Ironhide’s spike.

“Any objections, Ironhide?” Bluestreak asked, his tone absolutely wicked and definitely learned from Ratchet.

“None,” he gasped as he hauled down on Jazz’s hips, grinding deep and making the saboteur cry out, head tipping back against Bluestreak.

“Remember, no overloading,” Bluestreak warned, the little demon, even as his hands swept over Jazz’s headlights, his palms making soft, circular motions. Jazz’s valve rippled around Ironhide’s spike, clamping down hard, charge zipping between sensor and receptor nodes in a fiery bite.

“Y-yes, sir,” Jazz stammered. He licked his lips, frame surging as he rode Ironhide’s spike and leaned back against Bluestreak, who was fondling his headlights with pinches and squeezes, until they flickered.

Bluestreak grinned, and while one hand continued to grope Jazz’s headlight, the other slipped up under his bumper, tweaking something that made Jazz jerk and cry out. His hands clawed the air before they latched onto Bluestreak’s arms.

Ironhide was enraptured.

The sight of Jazz, uninhibited, trembling as he struggled to hold back his pleasure while providing Ironhide with plenty of his own, was intoxicating. Bluestreak’s mastery of the situation, his easy manipulation of Jazz even while continuing to frag Ironhide in long, deep strokes was equally so.

Had they done this before? With someone else? Ironhide didn’t know, but damn if they didn’t have the perfect rhythm. Bluestreak thrust deep, and Jazz rose up. Bluestreak withdrew, and Jazz sank down with a wriggle and a ripple of his calipers.

Ironhide groaned, ventilating hot bursts of air, his cooling fans spinning so fast they vibrated the berth, just as his engine did. Their fields assaulted him, throbbing with lust and arousal, and the whole room was thick with the scent of it.

He wasn’t going to last at this rate. He said as much.

Bluestreak just chuckled and nuzzled into Jazz’s audial. “You’re our guest. It’s only polite that you get to overload first,” he said, fingers scraping audibly over Jazz’s flickering headlight even as he tweaked something under Jazz’s bumper.

A sharp cry and Jazz arched his backstrut, his valve clamping fitfully around Ironhide’s spike, dragging him deep, sensor nodes spitting rapid-bursts of charge at Ironhide’s receptors. Bluestreak thrust deep as well, grinding hard, his housing putting a heavy pressure on Ironhide’s exterior nodes.

More stars danced in his optics. His ventilations caught, hands squeezing on Jazz’s hips. Arousal roared through him, lightning sluicing through his lines, through his sensory net. The hot coil of need in his belly twisted and twisted into a heavy knot, a building explosion that finally burst in overload.

Ironhide roared as he pulled Jazz onto his spike and splattered his ceiling node with transfluid, his spike pulsing and pulsing as Jazz’s calipers wrung him dry. Jazz moaned, his field full of restrained need, as Bluestreak clutched him tight and followed Ironhide over. The hot splash of his release triggered Ironhide’s valve and sent him cycling into a second overload before the first had cleared his systems, and he bucked beneath them, entire frame wrought with pleasure.

His sensory feed fritzed with static, world narrowing to hot-white ecstasy, until he crashed back into his frame, a sated, trembling heap coated in condensation and tingling. He cycled his optics, rebooting them, treated to the sight of Bluestreak’s hands sliding down Jazz’s frame.

Jazz who was trembling so hard his armor clattered and charge leapt out from his substructure. His frame poured a suffocating heat. His valve was sopping, fluttering madly around Ironhide’s semi-pressurized spike and proof-positive that he’d obeyed. He hadn’t overloaded.

“Good job, pet,” Bluestreak said before he patted Jazz’s belly and leaned back. “Off you go. Our guest needs a cleaning before your job is done.”

Jazz moaned and lolled forward, moving with glacial shifts of his weight. “Y-y-yes, sir,” he slurred as Ironhide’s spike slid free of the snug confines of his valve.

He was obedient, however, as he immediately turned around and leaned over Ironhide’s frame, lips parting as his glossa swept over Ironhide’s spike and array in long licks, lapping up his own lubricant and Ironhide’s transfluid.

“Primus,” Ironhide swore and loosed a long groan. “You’re both of you fragging menaces.”

Bluestreak chuckled and patted Ironhide’s thighs. “Is that a complaint I hear, old mech?”

“Ask me again tomorrow.” Ironhide licked his lips and felt his systems stir as Jazz’s diligence made his internals clench with arousal.

He was getting sloppy though, Ironhide noticed. No doubt because of the need simmering in his lines and the way he could barely keep himself upright. He cleaned Ironhide’s spike in due time, giving him leave to retract it back into the safety of his housing.

Bluestreak chuckled. “You know, you never complained this much when it was Prowl and Ratchet putting on a show.” He shifted back, spike slipping free of Ironhide, and when he moved away, Jazz was quick to take his place.

Ironhide didn’t want to miss that. He propped himself back up on his elbows, watching avidly as Jazz bent to work, glossa once again working between Ironhide’s thighs. Long licks swept up transfluid and lubricant alike, gentle around oversensitive nodes, and pressing deep to gather up every drop.

“I do, you’re just usually not around to see it,” Ironhide replied with a chuckle. Anything to distract himself from the tempting sight of Jazz licking every trace of his master from Ironhide’s valve.

Bluestreak grinned. “If you say so.” He reached out, his hand petting over the curve of Jazz’s helm. “He’s doing good, I hope?”

“More than.” Ironhide licked his lips. “Glad to see that obedience trainin’ is startin’ to work out.

“He still has his moments, but that’s okay. I like a challenge.” Bluestreak’s tone shifted toward fond, affectionate even, and Jazz’s engine rumbled.

The noisy, nearly obscene noises of him lapping eased. Ironhide’s entire array tingled in the aftermath as Jazz finally sat back on his heels, licking his lips clean.

“I’m done, master,” he said.

“Yes, you are. And such a good job you did. I’m impressed, pet.” Bluestreak grabbed Jazz’s arm, tugging him close, and Ironhide sat fully up, pulling his legs out of the way. He watched, avid, as Bluestreak curved an arm around Jazz’s waist and used the other to gently hold Jazz’s chin.

“And you didn’t overload,” Bluestreak observed.

“No, master,” Jazz replied, his vocals shaky, his frame clattering even harder.

Bluestreak’s voice went even softer, practically a croon that in any other situation would have come across as condescending. “Such a good pet you are.” He leaned in close, nuzzling their nasal ridges. “One who has earned his overload, I think. So go on, pet. Let go.”

Jazz whined low in his intake, hands clutching at Bluestreak’s sides. His hips made little rocking motions into thin air, and that was when Bluestreak kissed him, long and deep, optics shuttered and mouth moving ever so slow.

A low sound rose in Jazz’s intake, a cross between a moan and a whimper. He shook from helm to pede as he keened before he jerked, and his field flashed throughout the room, overload crackling like electric fire over his armor.

From a kiss.


Bluestreak hummed into the kiss and pulled back, his hand gently stroking Jazz’s face. “Good boy,” he murmured as one finger traced over the curve of Jazz’s jaw and down his intake. “Session’s over now.”

A low whimper crawled out of Jazz’s intake. He nodded and tipped forward, forehead resting on Bluestreak’s chestplate. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“You’re welcome.” Bluestreak patted Jazz on the back, his other hand continuing to stroke his partner’s face. Jazz was shivering now, different than the trembling of delayed overload, but there was a calm in his field, one that Ironhide envied.

He pulled himself entirely upright, dangling one leg over the edge of the berth. He didn’t feel awkward, not quite, but he also wondered if he should quietly leave. The game was over, after all. The rest was a vulnerability Ironhide wasn’t sure he was invited to witness.

Bluestreak kept stroking Jazz gently, shifting a little to lean back against the wall and get more comfortable. “Hey, sweets. Let’s see about getting you cleaned up, yeah?”

“I ain’t that dirty,” Jazz retorted, somewhat muffled given that his face was smooshed against Bluestreak’s bumper.

“Well, maybe I just like cleaning you up, sweetspark.” Bluestreak nuzzled him with a little laugh. “Feel better?”

Jazz lifted his head and licked Bluestreak’s chin. “Ya know I do.” He turned his gaze toward Ironhide, lips curved with a soft smile. “Yer awful quiet.”

Ironhide spread his hands. “Felt appropriate.” He tilted his head as he looked at the two of them, all cutely coiled together and stuff. “Didn’t want ta interrupt.”

Jazz shrugged. “You were invited. If we didn’t want ya here, we’d have kicked ya out already.”

“Good to know.” Ironhide hopped down from the berth then, still soaking up the lazy comfort the double overloads had left in him. “But I still think I oughta be goin’ now. As much fun as it was.”

“You’re leaving?” Bluestreak shifted, adjusting Jazz in his lap as his face creased with confusion. “You can stay if you want. You don’t have to leave just ‘cause we’re done playing.”

Ironhide shook his helm. “That ain’t it, baby blue.” He grinned and stretched his arms over his helm. “Ya’ll just look so cozy it reminded me of a story a little birdie whispered into my audial this morning.”

Jazz squirmed into Bluestreak, nosing into the sniper’s throat. “Wouldn’t be the one about Prime, would it?”

“That very same.” Ironhide dropped his arms and rolled his helm, easing the krick in his neck. “Rumor has it that if I time it just right, I can pounce and drag him to a berth.”

Jazz chuckled. “Good. He ain’t recharged in a week. He needs it.”

“Glad I have yer approval,” Ironhide drawled, his lips quirked in a grin. “Thanks for the invitation. Anytime ya’ll need a third, ya know who to call.”

Bluestreak snorted. “How generous of you.”

“I’m just that kind of mech.” Ironhide winked and their laughter followed him out, an altogether joyous sound. They were so good for each other, Ironhide couldn’t help but figuratively pat himself on the back.

He’d done good there, hooking those two up. Very good.


To see about a Prime.

Because Ironhide is just that kind of charitable.


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