[G1] Hush

He didn’t know which was louder: Megatron’s gasping moans or the screech of his backplate as it rhythmically scraped the wall.

Optimus rolled his hips, pulling Megatron down onto his spike and grinding deep, riding hard on Megatron’s ceiling node. Lubricant squelched around his spike, dripping back onto his groin, sweet and tangy.

Megatron keened, his hands digging against Optimus’ clavicular strut. “Harder, rust you!” he demanded.

“Hush. Do you want Ironhide to know where I’ve been?” Optimus demanded.

Megatron’s valve rippled, dancing along the length of Megatron’s spike. His thighs tightened, feet drumming against the back of Optimus’ legs.

“You just don’t want him to see you can’t keep your hands off me, naughty Prime,” Megatron growled.

Optimus flushed, both heat and arousal. His audials sparked and he slammed Megatron harder against the wall, hearing metal shriek in protest.

“Strike a sensor, did I?” Megatron laughed.

“Shut up.”

“So mature of you.” Fingers teased against Optimus’ clavicular strut, stroking against his seams.

Optimus growled and pressed their chestplates together, pinning Megatron hard and fast against the wall as he stole his mate’s lips. Denta clashed, the kiss messy and frantic as Optimus’ fast pace bounced Megatron in his lap.

They moaned in unison. More lubricant soaked Optimus’ groin.

They were going to be late.

Megatron bucked against him, valve spiraling tight, rippling around Optimus’ spike.

Oh, well.

Optimus supposed he’d just have to apologize.

But later. Much, much later.


[G1] Just Like This

It wasn’t often that Sunstreaker managed to get Sideswipe still and pliant beneath him, but the times when he did were worth all the more for their rarity.

Like now, when he was curled around Sideswipe from behind, every inch of him covering every inch of Sideswipe, his spike nestled snug in Sideswipe’s very warm and welcoming valve, calipers twitching intermittently.

Their fields were synced, their ventilations matched, and even the push-pull of their spark rhythms came to a perfect harmony. It was the closest thing to peace Sunstreaker had ever felt, and the languid, satisfied pulses along their bond meant that Sideswipe echoed the sentiment.

Until he started to squirm. Because Sideswipe could never be still for long.

His aft pushed back into the cradle of Sunstreaker’s pelvis, his valve twitching increased in earnest. “Wanna overload,” he mumbled, ex-venting puffs of heat over Sunstreaker’s armor.

Sunstreaker fitted an arm beneath him, pressing his hand to his twin’s chestplate, right over the central seam. “Like this?” he asked, purring directly into Sideswipe’s audial, voice low.

Sideswipe shivered. A small whine eked from his engine. “Yes,” he growled. “Fragging love it when you do that.” His aft pushed harder, making small circles, lubricant welling up around Sunstreaker’s spike as charge nipped out.

Sunstreaker chuckled, still dark and low. “I know you do.” Yet, he kept himself still, bearing more of his weight down on Sideswipe, until his twin couldn’t get the leverage to push back, could only lay there, with Sunstreaker’s spike throbbing in his valve, and no other motion to speak of.

“Think you can overload just to the sound of my voice?” Sunstreaker murmured. He licked at the edge of Sideswipe’s audial, just a quick pass of his glossa.

Sideswipe shuddered, his field pulsing a volcanic heat, and their bond skipped. “We could find out,” he said, vents coming sharper, his valve squeezing down tighter and his chestplates juttering under Sunstreaker’s fingertips. “You up to the challenge?”

“The better question is, brother, do you have what it takes to resist?” Sunstreaker murmured and dragged his lips over the curve of Sideswipe’s jaw. “Because I have all night to practice.”

Sideswipe groaned and twisted his fists in the berth cover. “Primus, I love you,” he gasped, his valve quivering with anticipation.

Sunstreaker grinned and tilted his head against Sideswipe’s, his spark pulsing with affection. “I know.”

[G1] Amorous Affeciton

For once, it wasn’t Wheeljack’s fault.

Ratchet should have taken a decom shower like everyone told him to. But since when had Ratchet listened to anyone honestly? Darn medic was the stubbornest person in the universe, even more than Ironhide and Optimus, both of which he’d ignored as well.

And now here Wheeljack was, with a very amorous mate trying to crawl under his plating, with the kind of grabby hands that would make an octopus jealous.

Pity it took an alien aphrodisiac to make Ratchet this darn affectionate.

“Come on, Jackie, frag me,” Ratchet whined, pawing at his interface array, his expression so open and hungry that it made him look centuries younger and ten times adorable and Wheeljack felt all of his resolve crumble.

“Dunno if that’s such a good idea, Ratch,” Wheeljack replied, and yet his fingers found their way to his mate’s seams and sensitive spots, making Ratchet shiver and tremble as he kept climbing right into Wheeljack’s lap.


“I say it is,” Ratchet huffed and slung his arms over Wheeljack’s shoulders, pressing their foreheads together. His ample windshield was not nearly enough for an appropriate distance. “What? I’m not attractive to you anymore? Am I too old and cranky?” He accompanied the demand with a roll of his hips that should have been illegal, his wet valve leaving a sticky streak over Wheeljack’s abdomen and pelvis.

Wheeljack gripped his hips. “Aw, Ratch. That’s not fair.” His engine revved, interface array pinging him for release. He had a willing mate in his arms, what more did he want?

Quiet you, Wheeljack thought at his array. He didn’t have to act like a ‘face starved idiot.

Ratchet’s knees dug into Wheeljack’s hips as he rocked against Wheeljack more urgently. “Then frag me already. Primus!” He ex-vented a burst of scorching heat, his frame trembling, his spike poking at Wheeljack’s belly. “My lines are itching and my circuits are burning and I’m so fragging empty that it hurts.”

Wheeljack’s spark throbbed. His hands smoothed up Ratchet’s sides, down his back, cupping his hips and aft again. His processor hesitated, but his spike had no such compunction, punching through his blocks to free itself, the wet head of it brushing over Ratchet’s inner thigh. Drips of hot lubricant landed on his unit, and Wheeljack groaned, tripping in his battle against Ratchet’s inelegant seduction.

“Fine,” Wheeljack bit out as he shifted just enough that he could rock his spikehead against Ratchet’s rim. “But for the record, it wasn’t my fault this time.”

“Noted,” Ratchet gasped and dropped down, swallowing Wheeljack’s spike in one smooth motion, his valve hot and gripping and hungry as he took Wheeljack to the hilt.

Wheeljack’s engine screeched, his backstrut arching as Ratchet proceeded to ride his spike like there was no tomorrow, like salvation could only be found in a thick, throbbing spike piercing his valve.


There was no ifs, ands, or buts about it. No one was in control here. Not Wheeljack. Not Ratchet. Nothing but whatever alien compound had slithered into Ratchet’s coding.

All Wheeljack could do was hold on for the ride, and enjoy the sight of his mate blissed out on pleasure for once, making all of these yummy, sexy noises and bearing the energy of a mech who hadn’t worked three shifts back to back after pulling more sparks from Unicron’s hold.

Damn it. After this, they were going on vacation whether Ratchet liked it or not.

Just as soon as Wheeljack survived this.

But oh, what a way to go.

[IDW] Awake and Ready

Even here, on the tiny shuttle, with no one else around for lightyears, Drift recharged tensely, as though he feared something would attack at any moment. They’d fall asleep in each other’s arms, Drift sprawled on top of Ratchet as if trying to keep him from leaving, their fields entangled. And Ratchet would online – first, always first, there were some things you couldn’t beat in a medic’s coding – and he’d find Drift’s armor clamped, his field withdrawn, and his position shifted so that he faced the door, prepared for threats.

It broke Ratchet’s spark every time.

But he supposed only a few months worth of co-recharging, field-mingling, and snuggling wasn’t enough to overcome a lifetime’s worth of self-preservation.

He knew better than to startle. To speak. To touch. He always reached for Drift with his field first, energies lightly caressing the furthest edge of Drift’s own, announcing himself with a soft sweep above Drift’s shoulder.

It’s me. You’re safe. We’re safe. He repeated it, over and over, until Drift started to stir. Until his engine kicked on with a quiet purr. Until he turned, ever so slowly, in the softest grip of recharge, into Ratchet’s embrace. He nuzzled Ratchet’s chestplate – unfairly adorable, if Ratchet might add – and his hand slid around Ratchet’s waist, fingers sliding and tucking into a seam.

Drift’s field responded, sliding into the nooks and crannies of Ratchet’s own, pulsing back recognition and affection and the tiniest kernels of trust. All very good signs.

Ratchet rested his hand on Drift’s shoulder, and when he didn’t acquire an armful of snarling, armed, fanged, angry little speedster, he knew he’d done his job right. He slid his hand down, ever so gently, until his palm pressed against Drift’s back, stroking a sensitive armor plate.

Drift shivered in his arms. He hummed a happy little noise and burrowed harder against Ratchet’s chestplate, ex-vents fogging the clear transsteel. He threw a thigh over Ratchet’s and ground his pelvic array against Ratchet, heat already stirring behind his panel.

Ratchet chuckled softly. “I know you’re awake,” he murmured as he dipped his helm, nipping at a finial.

There was a click before Ratchet felt the hot damp against his thigh. More than awake then. Awake and ready.

Must have been a night of good dreams for once then.

“That the game we’re playing now?” Ratchet murmured, his denta nipping again at the finial as Drift undulated against him.

“Every morning,” Drift murmured even as his fingers curled into Ratchet’s seams and tugged on his armor plates. “Til we get back.”

“And even after,” Ratchet replied and nudged his thigh against Drift’s closed, yet blazing hot array. “I said it and I meant it, Drift.”

“I know.” Drift tipped his head up and buried his mouth in Ratchet’s intake, lips and denta alike scraping a path of liquid pleasure, followed by soft and soothing kisses. “I know.”

[IDW] Lazy Morning In

Skids was ticklish. A tiny little detail that Rung was utterly delighted to discover. Not only was he ticklish, but he always chuckled so softly, his field blooming with happiness, when Rung took advantage of it.

Which was why, the mornings when Rung onlined first, with Skids wrapped around him and over him and generally swallowing him in a stuffy embrace, Rung’s first reaction was to tickle. To slide his fingers into open seams and ex-vent little bursts of air into Skids’ intake until his lover squirmed around him.

“Wake up,” Rung murmured, lips brushing an intake cable so softly it was feather-light. “I’m overheating again.” As he always did when Skids turned into a many-limbed creature in the middle of the night.

Skids wriggled, a little giggle bubbling up in his vocalizer. Rung’s fingers slid deeper, tickling over cables and struts as Skids’ field onlined and rolled over him infectious humor.

“You are a menace,” he murmured sleepily, and only tightened his embrace, head tilting down to nuzzle the top of Rung’s.

“And your alt-mode must be that of a furnace,” Rung said, words muffled into Skids’ chestplate. “Why are you so hot?”

A hand slid down, cupping Rung’s aft and giving it a squeeze. “Must be your fault,” he said with a little laugh. “I’m always subconsciously trying to warm you up.” He patted Rung’s aft before his hand lingered, a noticeable weight.

Ah. Well, he did have a point. Rung’s resting temperature did happen to be several degrees cooler than the average mech, especially if the average mech happened to have a vehicular alt-mode.

“And now it seems you are consciously attempted to do so,” Rung said as his lips curved with amusement. He squirmed, pushing his aft back into Skids’ hand.

Skids’ lips brushed his forehead. “So you’ve seen through my clever ruse. I knew you would.” His hand slid down, fingers dipping between Rung’s thighs. “Don’t we have a deal, Rung? You wake me up with tickles and I…”

Rung arched into Skids’ touch, purposefully spreading his thighs. “–get to wake us both up with an overload or three.” An electric thrill danced up his spinal strut as his spark whirled with delight.

Skids chuckled. “Mm. That’s right.” His lips trekked a path over Rung’s forehead before they traveled further down, just enough for Rung to tilt his head up and meet them.

Nothing beat a lazy morning in.

[IDW] A Haze of Ecstasy

Cyclonus had a rhythm; Whirl did not. It was impossible to predict or anticipate them, and Prowl loved every fragging second of it.

He moaned around the spike in his mouth, lubricant bubbling up around his lips and dribbling over his chin. His hands curled into fists, bound as they were at the base of his backstrut and by the wrists.

Cyclonus’ hold on his head was gentle, but firm. His thumbs occasionally swept over Prowl’s cheeks as though enticed by the way they puffed as Cyclonus smoothly stroked into his mouth.

Prowl’s valve quivered, calipers clutching hungrily at the spike plunging into it. Whirl, by contrast, had no rhythm and seemed to delight in surprising Prowl.

Shallow and fast. Deep and slow. Grinding circles. Rutting rubs that flirted with Prowl’s rim and exterior clusters. It was maddening. It was wonderful.

Whirl held his hips with as much firm gentleness as Cyclonus. Every pinch of his claws was on purpose, a planned sting to rev Prowl’s engine.

Cyclonus was silent, his engine purring, his field a song of pleasure and want. Meanwhile, Whirl babbled a pretty string of filthy praise and encouragement. Both made Prowl’s spark shimmer.

He almost didn’t want them to overload, content as he was to float in this haze of ecstasy. Drowning in waves of push-pull, taken and claimed, offered and used.

Prowl’s optics shuttered. He gave himself over to it.

Sheer, utter bliss.

[IDW] Vocal Commands

He’d kept Ratchet like this for hours: bound, trembling, overheated, charge boiling out from under his armor.

Each in-vent was a staticky gasp. His optics were bright and sparking. The dark, glossy bindings stood out in stark relief against white armor, which was becoming streaked with condensation.

He was beautiful like this.

“You’re close,” Perceptor said, more observation than question. “I can taste it.”

He was near enough to touch, if he so desired. But he didn’t allow himself to do so. That wasn’t the name of the game this time. A challenge had been laid.

“You deserve it, Ratchet. You’ve been such a good pet,” Perceptor praised as he let his gaze rove over Ratchet with appreciation. “You’ve behaved for once. And now you’re going to obey. You’re going to overload because I said so.”

Ratchet’s engine whined. His thighs trembled. His field crackled, much in the way his vocalizer did when he tried to speak.

“C—c—c—” The word caught, the syllable repeating itself, a sure sign of a scorched fuse.


“Yes, you can,” Perceptor said. He leaned close, enough to feel Ratchet’s ex-vents but not touch. “Because when you do, I will claim you. Again and again. Until the only name you remember is mine.”

Ratchet moaned. His armor juttered. Lightning crawled out from beneath armor plates to decorate his paint.

“Now,” Perceptor murmured and let his field unfurl enough to taste Ratchet’s. “Give me what I want, pet. Surrender to the pleasure. Let it seethe in your lines and make your spark dance for me.”

He paused, enraptured by the sight of Ratchet writhing, of him dangling on the precipice. Perceptor licked his lips.

“Do it,” he growled. “Overload.”

And Ratchet obeyed, loosing his grip and thrashing as pleasure stripped him raw and sent arcs of charge spilling into the air. Peerceptor could taste the discharge, the ozone, and Primus, was it heady. His own frame thrummed with anticipation. He grinned as Ratchet made inarticulate noises and writhed.

Good medic.