“Are you still bored?”
That was the first thing Optimus asked when Jazz strolled into his office and, once again, found his partner buried behind heaps of datawork. The piles had gotten so high, Jazz could barely see Optimus, and Optimus was not a small mech.
There were datapads stacked on his desk, on his shelves, on the floor, on the sole chair he reserved for visitors. Jazz hadn’t known there were this many datapads in the entirety of the Arc.
How bad did his own office look? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ventured into it. Too much dust.
“Not so much lately, but yeah.” Jazz said tiptoed around the stacks, made himself a space on the desk, and hopped up to sit in the newly cleared space. “Why? Got something fun for us to do?” He waggled his orbital ridges.
“A problem for you to solve,” Optimus said without looking up from his work and without appreciating the sexy perch of Jazz’s frame.
Jazz sighed with the air of one muchly offended. “I’m guessin’ that problem isn’t that you’re cranked, and you desperately need to suck my spike.”
Optimus’ optics flickered, and he looked up at Jazz with a mix of warmth and amusement. “Not this time,” he said with a twinkle in his optics. “But perhaps you can convince Ratchet to do so. Or take care of it yourself.”
“Oh, so Ratch is the problem, huh?”
“For both Autobots and Decepticons, I’m told.” Optimus gestured toward one of his stacks. “Those are complaints, by the way. He’s not satisfied with terrorizing Autobots anymore. He’s moved on to snatching unsuspecting Decepticons.”
Jazz thumbed his jaw as he considers the outrageously tall stack. “Doc-bot is wound a little tight, yeah?”
“And in need of your expert touch. For the sake of the treaty, will you please see if you can find out what is wrong and if there’s anything you can do to alleviate it?” Optimus asked as he returned his attention to his datawork, his face pinched with that special kind of worry he had perfected as Prime.
Prowl was Optimus’ right-hand mech because he made difficult choices and managed the day-to-day minutiae involved in keeping the Autobots a well-oiled machine. Jazz was Optimus’ left hand for this reason – it was more than how skillfully he could kill. It had everything to do with keeping a finger on the pulse of the Autobots, to use a human term, and managing their morale.
Jazz kicked his legs as he considered Optimus’ request. “Hard to believe the Cons are protestin’ so much free medical care.”
“I’m being led to believe it’s Ratchet’s manner and methods that they protest, not the end result,” Optimus said with a wry tone. “You know as well as I do that his bedside manner can leave much to be desired when he’s…”
“–got a burr up his aft about something?” Jazz finished with a sparkling grin.
Optimus sighed quietly, his field nudging affectionately against Jazz’s. “Yes. That.” His stylus swept across a nearby datapad before he said, “You have my permission to use any means necessary.”
A delighted tingle danced up Jazz’s spinal strut. “Oh, you know just the sweet-talkin’ to give me, doncha, OP?” he purred.
“It’s my gift to you,” Optimus said with the quietest of laughs, but there it was, a gentle unknotting at the back of his shoulders, the slightest release of tension. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
Jazz hopped down from the desk and indulged in another stretch – this time he felt the weight of Optimus’ gaze, lingering appreciatively. “Mission accepted,” he said with a low groan as a kinked cable in his lower back finally twitched into its proper place. “I’ll report back later with my results.”
“See that you do,” Optimus said, his tone one of command, but his field all warmth and longing as it twined desultory around Jazz’s own.
As much as Jazz wanted to stay to play with Optimus a bit, he was now otherwise occupied. He had to hunt down Ratchet and see what got their Chief Medic all tied up in knots.
Jazz wasn’t sure what the issue could be. They were currently in a cease-fire, working diligently toward a treaty that would definitively end the war. While there had been grumbling on both sides, no one seemed determined to shatter the cease-fire and plunge them all back into war.
The lack of fighting meant mechs were finally getting much-needed rest. Ratchet was able to repair everyone he could get his hands on without the worry that he was sending them right back out to get injured. Energon was, while not overabundant, readily available to anyone who wanted it for any reason. Even the humans had stopped their bitching now that the Autobots and Decepticons had ceased turning their planet into a battleground.
So why, Jazz pondered, was Ratchet wound so tightly?
The halls outside the medbay were empty. Eerily empty and quiet. Gone were the usual Autobots spending their restless energy on a friendly game of Grenade Tag. Sideswipe didn’t lurk in the shadows, ready to pepper Ratchet with a new prank.
Jazz waved to Red Alert behind the cameras and braced himself for whatever he’d find in the medbay. Ratchet on a rampage? Cowering assistant medics?
None of the above. It was quiet and still, no one in the waiting area, no one behind the desk. The door to Ratchet’s office was open, but Ratchet wasn’t in it. Ratchet would’ve put a sign on the door if he wasn’t available, so Jazz pushed to the examination rooms in the back, reaching out with his field.
No one but Ratchet, he discovered.
Ratchet was in the furthest exam room, viciously scrubbing a medberth as if it offended him. The smell of disinfectant was strong enough to knock out a minibot.
“Finally here to let me change that clogged filter?” Ratchet asked before Jazz could get a word out.
“Nope!” Jazz chirped and grabbed the chair Ratchet usually used, swinging it around to sit backward upon it. “Just came by for a friendly visit. To chat. You know, catch up.”
Ratchet paused mid-scrub to arch an orbital ridge at him. “You’re chattering as bad as Bluestreak. What’s this really about?”
“I don’t know, you tell me,” Jazz said, and followed it up with his most charming smile. It generally didn’t work on Ratchet, but there was a first time for everything, right?
Ratchet sighed. “Optimus send you?”
“Only in as much as he sends me anywhere,” Jazz said as he made himself comfortable. He looked at Ratchet a bit closer.
Doc-bot’s energy field was wan, and fatigue clung to every inch of his frame. He held his armor too tightly to his substructure, like someone preparing for a fight at every moment, and his field screamed such an intense loneliness it made Jazz shudder. That Ratchet couldn’t hide it was even more worrisome.
Come to think of it, Jazz couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard of Ratch in someone’s berth. Cybertronians were no different than humans in that they needed social interaction, and while Ratchet berth-hopped aplenty, Jazz knew there wasn’t someone special in his life. And here lately, there wasn’t even someone just for fun.
Huh.
“When was the last time you interfaced?” Jazz asked, casual as you please, while Ratchet scowled at the berth.
Sharp blue optics darted to him as Ratchet’s irritation intensified, but there it was, embarrassment flushing warmly through Ratchet’s field. “That’s none of your damn business.”
Oh, ho.
Jazz had Ratchet’s number now. No wonder Ratchet had become a holy terror. There was a lot of pent up things inside Doc-bot, and he needed an outlet, same as Jazz had his outlet with Optimus. Course, Jazz was more than willing to lend out Optimus for a night or two, but maybe that was the problem.
Maybe Ratchet was done with ‘for the night’ and was more interested in ‘forever’.
“True.” Jazz scuffed his heels on the floor, leaving a streak of paint behind that made Ratchet scowl. “So remember when I was bored last week?”
“As I recall, you avoided telling me because I was the one mech you didn’t want to ask for work,” Ratchet said in a dour tone. He huffed and gave Jazz his back, full of offense.
Because Jazz didn’t want to spend his time cleaning, organizing, and being unconscious in a medberth while Ratchet took him apart and put him back together.
“That’s not the point,” Jazz said. “The point is that Optimus turned me in Megatron’s direction, and I discovered that our favorite overlord is actually a touch-starved submissive.”
Ratchet made a non-committal noise. “Oh?” he asked, but there was curiosity in the cant of his frame, the flicker in his field.
“Megatron could really use an expert hand though,” Jazz says, casual-as-you-please, eyeing Ratchet for the smallest reaction. “I mean, I’d do it, but Optimus is a handful, and what Megs really needs is someone full-time.”
“Hm,” Ratchet said, but there was no fooling Jazz. Ratchet’s hands had stopped moving and he was listening intently. “I’m surprised he let you see as much.”
“I can be pretty convincin’.”
Ratchet snorted and gave Jazz a knowing look. “I’m well aware of that.” He balled up the cleaning cloth and lobbed it in the direction of the laundry bin. He turned and put his hands on his hips. “I’m also not stupid. But if you think you can just toss Megatron in my berth and he’ll stay there, I don’t know you’re that convincing.”
Jazz grinned and hopped down from the desk, dusting off his hands. “Oh, you let me worry about him. I got a few tricks up my sleeves.”
“It’s not blackmail, is it?” Ratchet squinted at him, the jut of his jaw suggesting what he thought about that possibility.
“Nope. Just incentive,” Jazz chirped as he strode right up to Ratchet and set his hands on that beautiful waist. “I happen to know our favorite warlord desperately wants to fuck Optimus.”
Ratchet rolled his optics and looked down at Jazz as though waiting to see just what Jazz intended to do with his hands. “That’s not a secret. I think every mech knows that one except for those two.”
“Yep. And he’s not going to admit it out loud either.” Jazz teased his fingers into a few armor seams just to stroke those pretty cables beneath. “But lucky for him, I know all about his secret desire. Thing is, I can’t let him at Optimus without a trial.”
Jazz knew he struck gold when Ratchet’s optics darkened in hue, his armor flaring a bit wider to give him more room to work. His field turned warm and syrupy. Oh yeah. Doc-bot was definitely starved for some loving.
“Get to the point, Jazz,” Ratchet said, and whether he meant about Megatron or Jazz’s suddenly curious fingers, it wasn’t clear. Maybe both.
Jazz slipped his fingers forward, tracing the edges of Ratchet’s pelvic array. “I could use a hand or two. Y’know, someone to keep an eye on Megatron while I’m letting him have a taste of my mech.”
Ratchet tilted his head, engine setting into a low rumble that vibrated over Jazz’s fingers. “I’m listening.”
“See, I figure, you could help me get Optimus ready, and be backup if Megatron gets a little rowdy.” Jazz chuckled and his fingers briefly danced over Ratchet’s interface panel. “We both know asking Ironhide for help is a bad idea.”
Ratchet snorted. He folded his arms, trying to present a stoic front, as if his field wasn’t tangibly buzzing with excitement. And then he started to smile, a slow curve of his lips that grew into a devilish smirk. A chill clawed up Jazz’s spinal strut.
Maybe he was handing Megatron over to Unicron without knowing it.
“Alright,” Ratchet said with a quiet hitch of his engine that sounded like evil laughter. “But Megatron better agree to it. Don’t just spring it on him out of nowhere. He needs to join us with full knowledge.”
Jazz nodded and stepped out of Ratchet’s reach because suddenly, he didn’t want to be anywhere Ratchet could grab him. There was a manic look in the medic’s optics.
“Leave it to me,” Jazz said. “I already have a plan.”
~
He didn’t actually have a plan, but if there was one area where Jazz excelled, it was thinking on the fly. He had Ratchet’s agreement, and knew Optimus could be easily persuaded, so all that was left was convincing Megatron, and he had to take another casual stroll to the Nemesis for that to happen.
It was even easier than last time. They weren’t physically guarding the front doors anymore, and Jazz had long since memorized the sweep of the security cameras. They didn’t have patrols either. Honestly, the Autobots had only gone for the bare minimum of security as well, as a gesture of faith in the treaty. They only maintained a patrol so Red Alert wouldn’t have an aneurysm over it.
Jazz took himself a wander around the Nemesis since he could. Everyone seemed to be in fair spirits, with shiny paint and purring engines and leisure time. This was the cleanest he’d ever seen the Decepticon base, and probably the first time he hadn’t stumbled into one or two engex-sodden arguments. Peace looked good on them.
Eventually, he found Megatron in the warlord’s private washrack, mid-scrub by the look of the suds lingering on his armor. It was a good look, and Jazz leaned against the wall, arms crossed, to admire for a bit. He couldn’t deny Megatron was a fine piece of work. Too bad he had that whole history as a megalomaniac warlord.
As Megatron bent forward to scrub at his ankle joint, his aft presented a perfectly smackable target. This time, Jazz opted for an appreciative whistle.
Megatron whirled around so sharply that it sent a spray of soapy suds in all directions. “How the frag did you get in here?” he demanded, optics flaring, engine purring a growl. His field flared with alarm, then aggression, before it tapered down to a simmering suspicion.
“Through the door.” Jazz grinned.
A cable in Megatron’s jaw twitched. “What do you want?” he demanded as he stepped back under the solvent spray, half-washing himself, half-eyeing Jazz with suspicion.
“Awww. I thought we had fun together.” Jazz pushed off the wall and inched a few steps closer. “Now you’re bein’ so salty.”
Megatron’s optics flickered in confusion. “Salty?” he echoed, like the word was foreign on his glossa and in his databanks. Honestly, the Decepticons really needed to plug into the human world more.
“Human thing. Never mind.” Jazz waved off the colloquialism. He wasn’t hear to talk vernacular. “Let’s focus on this.” He clapped his hands together and pointed both at Megatron. “I have a proposition for you.”
“No cuffs,” Megatron rumbled as he tossed the soapy washrag toward a laundry bin and stepped fully under the spray to rinse, though he did not put his back to Jazz.
Primus, the trickle of all those suds was really working for him.
“I’m not a one-trick pony, Megs,” Jazz scoffed. “My fantasies are numerous and varied, and it just so happens that a few of them star you.”
Megatron’s optics flickered. “A one-trick what?” he repeated before he shook his head and slammed his palm on the shut-off switch. “No. Don’t explain. I don’t care. Just tell me what it is you want.” He snatched up a drying cloth.
What he wanted?
Well, right now, Jazz wanted to shove Megatron to the floor of the washracks and ride him like there was no tomorrow. Megatron was shiny and clean and far too lickable. Some suds had gathered in the gaps of his armor, and his cables shone thick and polished in those wide seams.
Focus.
Jazz literally shook himself and raised his gaze to a more appropriate location – Megatron’s face. “You still want a taste of Optimus, right?”
Megatron’s engine rumbled like shifting to a higher gear as those crimson optics turned to smoldering coals. “What is this generous offer going to cost me?” he demanded with remarkable restraint, though the lust pouring through his field was thick enough to choke on.
Primus, no wonder the war had lasted as long as it did. They literally tried to cut their sexual tension with knives.
Jazz grinned. “Nothing but your time and maybe a teensy bit of trust.” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together, though he doubted Megatron and his lack of human cultural knowledge would get the reference. “You passed the audition, but I’d still like a bit of insurance.”
Megatron lobbed the damp towel into a nearby washbasket. “Insurance? Be more direct, Jazz. I’m not interested in picking apart your manipulations.”
“This is as direct as I can be! Geez, you’re so touchy,” Jazz huffed, but Megatron glared those coalfire optics at him, so Jazz held up his hands. Look, Megs! No knives! “All I’m saying is, I’d like a fourth party to be present to keep us all honest.”
Megatron twisted his jaw, a cable ticking in his neck column as he considered Jazz’s request. “Fine,” he said at length. “Who?”
Jazz crossed his arms and stroked his chin with his thumb and forefinger, pretending to think deeply about the question. He already knew who he wanted, but he had to put on the airs. Jazz was pretty sure Megatron didn’t expect him to name a Decepticon, unless Megatron wanted to suggest Soundwave.
“Ratchet,” Jazz finally suggested.
Megatron’s engine rumbled, the keen taste of interest in his field before it was quickly reeled in and locked away. He tilted his head as if he had to give the suggestion true consideration before he said, “Acceptable.”
This was almost too easy.
“Glad you think so.” Jazz clapped his hands together and rubbed his palms, delightful images unfurling at the back of his cortex. Oh, he was getting hot already. “I’ll let you know when I’ve got it all set up.”
Megatron snorted. “Set up. That sounds appropriate.” His attention flicked between Jazz, the exit to his washracks, and back again.
Jazz, currently between Megatron and the exit, realized he was not in a good place. He tried to look innocent nonetheless. “We’re in a cease-fire,” he pointed out, backing toward the exit with a casual little side-hop. Nothing to see here, folks. Just a friendly neighborhood spy making a subtle slide toward departure.
“Berth games and treaty debates are two separate things.” Megatron folded his arms in a move that was not entirely innocuous. “Now I have work to do, so see yourself out the same way you invited yourself in.”
Jazz grinned, but he was above all else, a very smart mech.
He saw himself out.
~
With Ratchet and Megatron onboard, that only left one dance partner, and fortunately, the dance partner Jazz would find easiest to convince. He and Optimus had few, if any, secrets between them. Mostly because Jazz was good at ferreting out secrets, and Optimus was better at keeping Jazz honest. But they’d learned where they absolutely needed to be open if they were going to work as a committed duo.
A duo who openly shared, granted, but were still deeply committed to one another.
Jazz knew Optimus was just as hot for Megatron as Megatron was hot for Optimus. It wasn’t a matter of whether or not Optimus wanted to participate, but whether he was willing to both admit that he wanted it and concede to having himself bound while within arm’s reach of his greatest enemy.
He half-expected to find Optimus still in his office, buried under a pile of datapads that finally toppled over and did what Megatron never could. However, Optimus’ office was dark – and locked for that matter, Jazz had to break in through a code only Prowl could set – which meant Optimus had been forced to call it quits for the night. Likely because Prowl and Ratchet were working in tandem for once.
Jazz spun around and headed for Optimus’ personal quarters instead. They didn’t share – for obvious reasons, like the Decepticons managing to somehow get an assassin and/or bomb on the base – but now that the war was in a cease-fire, Jazz wondered if that would soon change. Would be nice to wake up to Optimus’ face every morning, and fall into recharge on top of the big mech every night.
Yeah. Would be pretty nice indeed.
Jazz whistled as he let himself into Optimus’ quarters – he had the code, thank you very much. No hacking this time.
Optimus wasn’t at his personal console, which meant he’d probably been locked out of access to that. But he was stretched out across a berth Jazz had made luxurious one Christmas ago, when they were engaging in the ‘cultural experience of human customs’. Which was just Jazz’s excuse to upgrade Optimus’ berth in a way Optimus couldn’t refuse, the big lug.
Optimus was still awake, though he paged idly through a datapad. He probably thought he was smart, trying to remote log-in to get work done. Not tonight, Unicron. Not tonight.
Jazz hopped up onto the berth and onto Optimus, crawling up, up, up all those miles of big, strong truck until he’d managed to interpose himself in front of Optimus’ view of the datapad. He folded his arms under his chin and waited for Optimus to acknowledge him.
It didn’t take long.
“Yes?” Optimus asked though with a distracted tone as he tried to shift to better see the datapad, as if anything on it could even compare to the hot spy lounging across his chassis.
Jazz tilted his head. “I have nearly solved your Ratchet problem.”
“My Ratchet problem?”
“The one where he’s terrorizing everyone lately?” Jazz raised his orbital ridges, not that Optimus could see behind his visor.
“Ah, yes. Though I would not use the term ‘problem’.” Optimus set aside the datapad at last, his hands coming to rest at the base of Jazz’s backstrut. “You have a solution?”
Jazz grinned and wriggled, trying to entice Optimus’ hands to slip further down, where they’d do more good. “I do. Wanna hear it?”
Optimus hummed, one hand sliding further up instead, walking along the delicate line of his spinal strut. “I do,” he said, using that resonant tone that vibrated all through his frame, and in turn, through Jazz as well.
It made him shiver.
Someone was feeling frisky. Jazz was definitely here for this.
He sat up, shifting back just enough to straddle Optimus’ waist, giving him access to a very shiny set of windshields. “I’m thinkin’,” he purred, as he rat-a-tatted his fingers over the gleaming glass,” that Ratchet could use a subby distraction and Megatron could use a caring Dom. Yeah?”
“I’m curious who angered you more to think of this very interesting contest of wills,” Optimus said with a laugh. His hands stroke down Jazz’s sides, settling on his hips.
“You don’t think it’s a good idea?” Jazz asked.
Optimus lifted him with ease, shifting Jazz a little further down, until he was nice and settled over Optimus’ warming spike panel. “It has potential, though I do not know how you intend to accomplish it.”
Jazz grinned. “Well, Ratchet was easy to convince. Megatron on the other hand…” He paused for emphasis, swiveling his hips in a little dance that vibrated over Optimus’ spike panel. “I had to dangle a special treat in front of him.”
“Jazz.”
Ohh, OP’s warning tone was so sexy.
“I broke no laws and didn’t risk the treaty,” Jazz promised, lifting his hands above his head. See? No weapons at all, boss bot. “I only offered something I knew he couldn’t refuse.”
Optimus lifted his chin, his thumbs rubbing circles over Jazz’s hip spurs, circling ever closer to his interface array. “Oh?”
“He’s got a pretty strong charge going for you, OP,” Jazz said, casual-as-you-please. “Methinks we should take advantage of that, yeah?”
“I prefer not to use interfacing as a form of manipulation,” Optimus said in that dignified, I-am-the-Prime voice. His field was a vibrant thing of heat and lust, however, which completely overrode his dignity.
Jazz grinned. “It’s only manipulation if you aren’t actually interested.” He tilted his head, field sliding over Optimus’ as if to say ‘hey, yo, I see you are telling a bit of a fib, my love.’
Optimus faked serenity while his engine gave a telling rumble. “I admit I am not opposed.”
“Not opposed?” Jazz echoed with a snort. He shifted free of Optimus’ light grip and planted himself between those glorious thighs instead, his fingers doing a dance over Optimus’ valve array. “Don’t lie to me, sweetspark. You’ve thought all about riding that spike. And it’s a gorgeous spike, if I do say so myself.”
A shiver fluttered across Optimus’ armor. “It was not a lie. It was a–”
“–blatant attempt to pretend ya haven’t fantasized about throwin’ Megatron down and having your wicked, wicked way with him,” Jazz purred. “Ergo, a lie.”
Optimus rumbled, and his valve panel snapped away beneath Jazz’s fingers, already dew-wet and biolights blinking invitingly. Jazz licked his lips and lay his thumb over Optimus’ anterior node, swollen and needy, giving it a gentle rub.
“You are – hnnn – not wrong.” Optimus sucked in a vent, his thighs trembling as he pushed his legs open wider. He rocked up against the pressure of Jazz’s thumb, a pearl of lubricant hovering at the bottom lip of his valve.
Jazz circled his thumb a few more times, admiring the hurried flicker of Optimus’ biolights. “I know I’m right,” he said, and caught movement in his periphery – Optimus reaching for him. “Hands off, by the way. We’re negotiating.”
“Are we?” Optimus rumbled, but he obeyed, like the good mech he was. He tucked his hands at his sides, his engine purring with content. “You already have my agreement.”
“Is that so?” Jazz stroked the plump lips of Optimus’ valve, paying special attention to each glittering biolight. More lubricant seeped free and Jazz was kind enough to slip two fingers into Optimus’ valve, curling them ever so slightly, rubbing along a node cluster.
Optimus canted his hips toward Jazz’s touch, the heat of his want wafting over Jazz like a tangible touch. “Please,” he said, and he didn’t only mean in the moment.
Jazz hummed. “I’ll make the arrangements,” he promised as he slid his hands up Optimus’ thighs to lean in and get his mouth on that beautiful, beautiful valve. He tongued Optimus’ swollen nub and licked deep.
Optimus visibly trembled, his thighs shaking beneath Jazz’s palm, and the need in his field was a hot, hungry pull.
They would absolutely talk more about this in length later, once Optimus had a clearer head, and Jazz didn’t feel the need to turn his partner into a well-satiated puddle. Jazz, however, was rather certain Optimus’ answer wasn’t going to change.
He wanted his chance with Megatron, even if there was only one, and Jazz intended to make it happen.
All he had to do now was set a date.
~
It took two weeks, give or take, to find a time in the schedule where all four of them were able to meet and satisfy the arrangement. Jazz had to sit down and help Optimus finish the mountain of datawork if only to make sure Optimus was available, while getting access to Ratchet was as simple as asking. Prowl practically threw the irascible medic at him.
Apparently, Ratchet had started to get on Prowl’s case as well, and if there was ever a battle of one unstoppable force versus one immovable object, it was Ratchet and Prowl at odds. Jazz judiciously agreed to take Ratchet off Prowl’s hands.
Jazz was able to arrange a warehouse on neutral ground, and with Ironhide’s help – and a lot of grousing on the old mech’s part – managed to get some furniture and other necessities inside. He’d stocked it with the basics – lube, meshcloths for after, et cetera. But it was Ratchet who arrived with a whole trunk of toys and accessories which he proudly dropped on the floor in front of Jazz.
“Don’t know if we’re going to use all of it, but better to have it and not need it, then want it and not have it, right?” Ratchet asked.
Jazz lifted the lid with some trepidation in his spark. His optics widened behind his visor as he beheld what to be a lifetime’s collection of rope, cuffs, bars, straps, whips, flogs, vibrators, spike rings, gags, and things Jazz couldn’t name. Some were shiny new; others were old, but lovingly cared for.
Jazz slammed the lid shut. “You,” he said.
“Me,” Ratchet said with a grin. He lovingly stroked the lid of the trunk. “Haven’t had cause to use most of this as of late. It’s such a shame.”
Jazz ex-vented through his denta. “I thought I was screwy, but doc-bot, you take the oilcake.” He flipped open the lid again. “I don’t know where to start.”
“I do.” Ratchet circled the trunk and leaned in beside him, withdrawing a thick coil of bright blue rope. “You wanted Optimus bound, yes?”
Jazz groaned. That rope was gonna look gorgeous on Optimus. “I don’t have the patience for that stuff, Ratch. Ya know me.”
Ratchet wiggled the rope. “Which is why I’m going to do it.” He turned and gave a sharp whistle, catching Optimus’ attention from where their fearless leader was pacing around the periphery of the warehouse, ostensibly checking for security flaws.
Optimus paused and looked toward them, resembling someone who was calm and composed, but Jazz could read the light tension in his frame, the small undercurrent of trepidation. As excited as Optimus was, they were preparing to engage in sexual relations with his former enemy.
“Come over here,” Ratchet said, and damn, not even Jazz could resist the edge of command in the medic’s tone. Ratchet was the dommiest-dom, and he knew it, and Jazz loved it. He was one of the few Doms Jazz would trust with Optimus.
“I do believe a ‘please’ would earn you a faster response,” Optimus said, all dignified and grave, despite the fact he obeyed immediately. If he had a tail, it would be wagging.
Ratchet snorted. “And if a please was what you wanted, I wouldn’t be here.” He looked Optimus up and down before making a twirling motion with his finger. “Kneel.”
Optimus ex-vented, but he obeyed, giving Ratchet his back and sinking down to his knees, which put him better within reach of Ratchet. The medic outmassed Prime by a handful of tons, but Optimus’ height more than made up the difference.
Jazz circled around to Optimus’ front, cupping his lover’s jaw with his hand. “Ropes good?” he asked, stroking a thumb over Optimus’ bottom lip.
Blue optics darkened with desire. “You know they are,” Optimus rumbled as Ratchet stepped up behind him and started to work.
“And you know I’m gonna ask anyway,” Jazz said, giving Optimus a gentle pat with his palm. “Don’t ya start gettin’ sassy with me, Prime.”
Optimus looked down, a feign at demureness. “My apologies,” he purred.
Ratchet flicked Optimus’ audial so quickly, Jazz didn’t catch it. Optimus’ sharp intake matched the equally sharp burst of want in his field. “Mind your manners,” he said. “And give me your wrists.”
Optimus dutifully reached behind himself, offering his hands to Ratchet’s work.
“Someone’s a bit full of himself,” Jazz said as he stroked over Optimus’ lip and watched Ratchet wind and knot and tighten the rope with focused motions. Jazz liked the look of rope, but he didn’t have the patience for it. Not when a quick set of cuffs would do the trick three times as fast.
The rope was preferred here though. It was easier to snap if Optimus needed, plus it made Optimus look completely fraggable. Irresistible even to Decepticons who might be filled with reasonable suspicion.
“Because he’s about to be full of Decepticon spike,” Ratchet said with a snort.
Jazz mock-gasped. “So lewd, Ratchet.” He fluttered a free hand over his chassis. “Are you tellin’ me that our prim ‘n proper Prime is gonna frag a Decepticon?”
Ratchet grinned, and that grin did things to Jazz’s libido that couldn’t be healthy. “Megatron no less.”
Optimus’ engine rumbled. He mouthed at Jazz’s finger, optics shuttering. Calm settled around his flared armor, however, as Ratchet slid the rope into place, confining him with trust.
“Ah. Been there, did that. And it was a wild ride,” Jazz said, both for Ratchet’s benefit, and for Optimus’, who’d already heard all the sordid details but never minded a retelling. “Few things we should all know.”
“I’m listening,” Ratchet grunted and flicked Optimus’ other antennae when there wasn’t a peep out of their Prime. “Are you?”
“Listening,” Optimus said, his optics briefly slitting open before they shuttered again. He swayed a little, head pushing into the curve of Jazz’s palm.
Jazz chuckled. “Good enough.” This was more for Ratchet anyway. Optimus wouldn’t do anything without being told. “Megatron’s not a fan of bondage. Don’t bother asking.”
Ratchet glanced toward his toy chest. “Unfortunate,” he sighed with clear disappointment. “I have a crimson in there that would suit him perfectly.” He tucked one loop of the rope over Optimus’ shoulder for brief keeping. “What else?”
Jazz shifted a foot between Optimus’ knees, sliding forward until he could offer a thigh for Optimus to rest upon, if he wanted. “Well, he seemed to enjoy getting bossed around a bit, and never objected to the toys. I delayed his overload, and that didn’t bother him either.”
“Not bothered by something and actively enjoying something are two different things, Jazz. You know this.” Ratchet’s tone was stern.
Jazz huffed. “I do know that. He’ll have no trouble letting us know if he doesn’t like something though. I can promise you that.” He bent down to steal a kiss from Optimus, whose mouth looked far too lonely.
A flick pinged against Jazz’s finial before he could make it to those plush lips. “No getting started until everyone is here,” Ratchet said.
“You’re the one tying him up,” Jazz grumbled, but he straightened and settled for caressing Optimus’ lips instead. “How am I supposed to resist that?”
“By behaving,” Ratchet said.
Optimus chuckled.
Jazz looked up at him. “Oh, you think that’s funny, do you?” He backed away and spun on a heel, heading straight for the medic’s crate. “Let’s see what else Ratchet has in his toybox then.”
He threw back the lid and rummaged around, trying to find something that was both punishment and reward. There was so much to choose from! When they had more time, Jazz was going to make Ratchet demonstrate what some of these unfamiliar things did. Until then…
Jazz found a sheath vibrator and didn’t bother to hide his delight. He pulled it out and all but skipped back to Optimus, waving the narrow, cap-like toy in front of his partner.
“What do ya think, love? Up for a little spike torture?” Jazz asked, watching Optimus’ expression and waiting for any sign Optimus wasn’t interested tonight.
“It’s remote-controlled,” Ratchet pointed out as he grabbed the robe he’d tossed over Optimus’ shoulder and started using it on the web of rope Jazz couldn’t see.
Glee shot through Jazz’s spark. “Oh, pretty-please, my lovely Prime?”
Optimus eyed the toy with evident hunger. “Yes.”
“Ratchet will have to show me how this works,” Jazz said as he knelt down in front of his Prime. “Though I’m pretty sure I can figure out this part. Open up, sweetspark.” He tapped Optimus’ spike panel for emphasis.
It sprang open beneath his touch, and the head of Optimus’ spike emerged as if to say hello. Jazz gave it a gentle pet before coaxing it back into Optimus’ sheath, and fitting the cap over the end of it. He’d found the button on the side, and when he tapped it, the cap popped out a little lip that kept it snug in place, preventing Optimus’ spike from extending.
Optimus muffled a groan, a shiver running over his armor. His optics darkened further as Jazz gave the cap a gentle rat-a-tat-tat with his fingers, and the vibrations echoed over Optimus’ sensitive spikehead.
“Oh, you’re going to be my good mech, aren’t you?” Jazz murmured as he circled his fingers over the panel, keeping up the steady pressure. Optimus’ engine revved. “You won’t open until me or Ratch give ya permission, right?”
“Of course,” Optimus said, but his vocalizer crackled with static.
“Primus, you two,” Ratchet growled, his field layered with waves of desire as he tied off the last bit of rope. “How am I supposed to concentrate when–”
Thud! Thud!
Three Autobot attentions swiveled toward the door before it screeched open on tracks that defied Jazz’s liberal use of WD-40. Megatron stepped into view and pulled the door shut behind him with a squeal that was even louder than before.
Jazz winced.
“Am I late?” Megatron asked. He strode further into the warehouse, confidence in the set of his shoulders, but his gaze flickering to Optimus, and then to the ropes wrapped around Optimus. His optics narrowed.
“You’re right on time,” Jazz chirped as Megatron’s neutral expression started to downshift toward a scowl. “And the ropes are only for Optimus, so put that frown away.”
Megatron’s lip remained curled toward a snarl. “I’m not worried,” he growled, clearly uneasy as his armor held tight to his frame. His neatly polished, gleaming frame.
Jazz whistled and gave Megatron an appraising circle. He’d been polished all over, and every inch of him sparkled with fresh wax. “Looking good, Megs. Ya got nice and pretty just for us.”
“Soundwave is within comm’s reach,” Megatron blurted out, perhaps a touch too loudly, as his gaze tracked Jazz’s every movement. “You wanted your reassurance; I will not surrender mine.”
Jazz shrugged. “I’m fine with it.” He paused facing Megatron, but glanced over his shoulder toward the others. Optimus was looking at Megatron with nothing short of hunger in his optics, but if he had a protest, he wasn’t voicing it.
“Soundwave can be discreet. Works for me.” Ratchet stood behind Optimus, hands gentle on Optimus’ shoulders, fingers stroking lightly along a seam.
Jazz grinned and turned his attention back toward Megatron. “See? All’s good. You still up for this?”
“Don’t ask foolish questions,” Megatron rumbled, but he’d found Optimus and there was nothing to distract him. His gaze devoured Optimus, and his armor flickered as it lifted away from his substructure to vent a building heat. “What are the rules?”
“Jazz or I will tell you when you can touch Optimus,” Ratchet said before Jazz could say something clever and make Megatron twitch. “Outside of that, if you don’t like what we’re doing, just say so.”
Jazz grinned and eyed all those inches of gleaming gunmetal grey. “But I have a feeling you’ll like everything you do. Optimus ready, Ratch?”
The distinct noise of rope sliding along metal echoed in the warehouse. Optimus’ optics were dark, a bit hazy, frame dipping in that way it did when he was sinking into a side of himself he rarely was allowed to indulge.
“Yes,” Ratchet grunted as he gave the rope one good tug and Optimus shuddered. “He’s all yours.”
Jazz sauntered closer to Megatron. “Actually, he’s all Megatron’s.” He gave Megatron his back – a moment of trust he knew the Decepticon could respect – and crooked a finger at Optimus. “Come here, OP. I think Megatron deserves a reward for all his patience.”
Megatron’s engine hitched in a strangled sound that Jazz was polite enough to pretend he didn’t hear, despite the fact Megatron’s field was a roar of lust. He was showing remarkable restraint, honestly.
There was only a few feet of space between Optimus and Megatron as Jazz had subtly been guiding Megatron deeper into the warehouse. Optimus looked up at Jazz’s voice, but then his gaze slid to Megatron, and he inched forward. On his knees. Every shuffle taken with care not to scratch his paint, his arms bound behind him, the blue rope wound around his frame in enticing knots.
Primus, he was pretty.
Megatron’s vents cycled faster. He said nothing, but Jazz could feel the burning in his gaze. He stepped back and to the side, leaning against Megatron’s hip. A waft of desperate heat vented from Megatron’s side, but he stood as still as a mountain, watching Optimus shuffle toward him on his knees.
“What do you think, Megs?” Jazz asked as he splayed his palm on Megatron’s abdominal plate and inched it down until it rested over Megatron’s interface array. It was nearly scorching-hot. “Do you deserve a reward for your patience?”
Megatron rumbled. “If I answer wrongly, will you deny me?”
Jazz laughed, though his fingers stroked playfully over Megatron’s panel. “Would I do that?”
Ratchet snorted. “You damn sure would.” He hadn’t moved from his spot, watching the three of them with a keen optic, his arms folded across his chassis.
Jazz pouted. “You’re all so mean to me.” He slipped away from Megatron and circled Optimus instead, getting a handful of rope knot between Optimus’ shoulder panels and guiding Optimus to a stop. “That’s my good mech. Right where I want you,” he purred.
Optimus shivered.
“Lean forward a little,” Jazz said. “Give Megatron a lick. See if you can’t get him to open for us.” He tipped forward, lips pressed to Optimus’ audial and added in a conspiratorial whisper. “I think he’s a bit shy.”
Megatron’s lip curled. “I am no–” His indignation broke into a swift intake as Optimus surged forward and pressed a kiss to his interface array. “Frag.”
“Mmm. Better,” Jazz murmured. He untangled his fingers from the rope and cupped the back of Optimus’ neck instead – to ground him. “Keep going, sweetspark. Make him give you a taste.”
Optimus groaned and leaned eagerly forward, off-balance by the slightly-too-wide space between him and Megatron. He licked a long stripe over Megatron’s interface panel, and it spiraled open in the next second, baring Megatron’s still-shuttered equipment to the cool warehouse air.
Optimus didn’t give Megatron a second to catch his vents, attacking Megatron’s spike panel with a wet kiss and kitten licks. The noises of his eager lapping sent heat through Jazz’s own frame. His vents caught as he watched them – Megatron staring down with wide optics, barely venting, hands pulling into slow fists at his side. Optimus making noises like each lick was a delicious energon treat.
Megatron’s spike panel spiraled open within a matter of moments, and his spike emerged into Optimus’ waiting mouth. Optimus moaned as he caught the wide head, licking a drop of transfluid from the tip before swallowing Megatron down in one long pull.
The sound Megatron made was on a frequency Jazz had never heard before. Primus, he’d be hearing that in his fantasies. It was a guttural, wanting, desperate, punched-out noise of disbelief and unadulterated pleasure.
Megatron held stock-still, as if he’d locked his knees. He didn’t try to grab Optimus, didn’t try to thrust, just stood there and took every kiss, lick, and swallow, shaking as if the restraint was going to rattle him apart.
“Good mech,” Jazz purred as he petted Optimus’ helm encouragingly – both to remind Optimus that he was there, and to show that he wasn’t jealous. This was hot as the Pit.
“His mouth is talented, isn’t it?” Jazz asked, looking up at Megatron, half-coy, half-prodding.
Megatron made an unintelligible noise before he gritted out, through clenched denta, “Passable,” he lied as if it wasn’t obvious his legs were threatening to give out from beneath him.
Optimus moaned around Megatron’s spike and pulled back, licking and sucking along the length of it as if he wanted to savor each inch. Megatron was fully-pressurized and leaking, steady drip after drip, and the heat venting from his frame was like standing beside an oven. When Optimus paid special attention to the head, tonguing against a cluster of nodes that ran along the underside, Megatron’s engine whined.
That was Jazz’s cue.
He grabbed Optimus’ nearer antennae and exerted a tiny bit of pressure against it, a light tug backward. “Off.”
Optimus made a noise of dismay, but he was obedient above all else. He allowed Megatron to slip from his mouth as he leaned back to rest on his heels. He licked his lips, over and over, need a heavy pull in his field.
“You!” Megatron growled, shaking all over, hands full fists as his spike bobbed there, wet with Optimus’ oral lubricant, and so pressurized it had to be painful.
Jazz stroked the antenna in his grip, a gentle sweep from root to tip like he knew Optimus liked, and felt Optimus melt back against him. “Did ya want to end this party so soon?”
Megatron’s field rolled through the room, heavy and hungry, but Jazz had braced himself for the tide. “I’m good for more than one,” he snarled as his spike dripped a pearl of lubricant to the concrete.
“Yeah, but who says I’m gonna let you have my mech more than once?” Jazz asked as Optimus leaned against his hip, shivering, a dazed look in his optics, and his glossa flicking over his lips, as if chasing every hint of Megatron’s taste. “You want more than just his mouth, doncha?”
“Of course,” Megatron snapped, and he took a single step forward, only to stop when Jazz held up his free hand.
“Did I say right now?” Jazz asked, head tilted. Primus, he was having too much fun with this. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Megs.”
A low growl rolled out of Megatron’s chassis. “You–”
“Actually,” Jazz interrupted with a bright tone, stroking his fingers over Optimus’ lip, giving Optimus something to taste since Jazz had so rudely taken him away from Megatron’s spike. “Ya should really be listening to Ratchet. Right?”
Peripheral sensors enabled Jazz to see Ratchet’s reaction without taking his visor off Megatron. The medic had kept his stance, but now he made a show of looking Megatron up and down. There was a keen glint of interest in Ratchet’s optics. He wasn’t nearly as stoic as he pretended to be.
“I don’t know,” he said as he tilted his head. “Can you listen to me, Megatron, or should we all walk away now?”
His voice was light, but Jazz knew an out when he heard one. Ratchet always was the stickler for rules when it came to this kind of play, and Jazz knew Megatron being here wouldn’t be any different. Which was great since Jazz’s mischievous side sometimes overrode his common sense. Like say, pushing a very desperate Megatron a pinch too far…
“I am capable of obeying orders,” Megatron said, his attention fixated on Optimus. “Though I will not be toyed with.”
“Fair enough.” Ratchet unfolded his arms and planted his feet. “Then come here,” he said, using that Tone all over again. That low, heavy, commanding tone that rumbled all through Jazz’s chassis and settled low in his groin.
Optimus groaned against his side, turning his face to press it to Jazz’s hip. Arousal poured off him in waves, and the ropes creaked as he tested their give before relaxing again.
“I know,” Jazz murmured, petting Optimus’ finial. He shifted, taking Optimus with him, so they both could watch this unfold.
It was the real test, honestly. Did Megatron like listening to Jazz when they fragged because he was caught up in the moment, or did he yearn for someone to take the reins? How much were he and Optimus alike? If anyone was going to take Megatron apart and find out what he wanted at his core, Ratchet was the best choice.
“To what end?” Megatron demanded as he prowled toward Ratchet. There was no other word for it. Megatron didn’t stop, but his steps weren’t light either. His optics were too dark, too heavy to be called submission.
Ratchet didn’t flinch. He waited until Megatron got within arm’s reach and then he acted, hand snapping out fast and getting a grip on Megatron’s collar fairing, pulling him down until they were face to face, optic to optic.
Megatron stumbled, braced himself, but stayed bent forward, his optics wide, vents shallow. Jazz barely vented himself. He tensed, waiting to see what Megatron would do.
“I’m a medic, Megatron,” Ratchet said in that even tone of his. “If you think I can’t yank you around because you’re bigger than me, you’d be wrong.”
And Megatron?
Froze.
He met Ratchet’s gaze, but every inch of him went still. Maybe because Ratchet was dangerous, everyone knew that, and a medic with a grip on your collar could do many terrible things. Or maybe it was because Ratchet had a way about him, a Tone like Jazz said. He expected obedience, and received it, all without having to ask.
Unless your designations were Sideswipe and Sunstreaker at least.
“Do you play like this often?” Ratchet asked, his tone mild but leaving no room for someone not to answer him.
“You consider this a game?” Megatron asked in return.
Ratchet clicked his glossa. “Well, that answers that.” His attention briefly slipped to Jazz – a blistering chastisement that made Jazz shuffle guiltily – before Ratchet returned his gaze to Megatron. “If you want me to stop, what do you say?”
“Is this a trick question?” Megatron demanded, though he did not try to escape Ratchet’s grip. He seemed quite content to stand there, teetering forward, Ratchet’s fingers hooked in his collar fairing.
Jazz looked away guiltily once more. Okay, yes, maybe he should have been a bit more upfront with Megatron in their little encounter. Maybe he shouldn’t have dived right into what was practically a scene with someone who had no clue about how a scene worked.
“No, it’s not,” Ratchet said, and his tone was the gentlest Jazz had ever heard it. Well, gentle and commanding all at once anyway. “If you, at any time, want me or anyone else to stop what we’re doing, what do you say?”
The question hung in the air. Megatron’s field teetered with confusion and suspicion until at length he said, “…Stop?” but it sounded more like a question.
Jazz winced.
Yeah. Definitely shouldn’t have jumped in feet first on that encounter.
“Good,” Ratchet near-purred, and Jazz shivered. Optimus did as well, point of fact. “Repeat it.”
Megatron’s vents shuddered. His hands pulled in and out of fists, yet he still didn’t pull away or into a more comfortable position. “If I want you or anyone else to stop at any time, I say ‘stop’.”
Ratchet’s slow smile emanated approval. “Very good,” he murmured as he loosened his grip on Megatron’s collar to flatten his palm on Megatron’s chassis, right over that Decepticon brand. “Now. Second question: what do you want most today?”
Megatron’s head didn’t turn, but his optics slanted toward Optimus, pressed against Jazz’s side, still trembling with unsatiated desire.
A slow chuckle rolled out of Ratchet. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“I…” Megatron trailed off, and Jazz held his vents, waiting.
Ratchet’s hands moved to Megatron’s shoulders, and he must have exerted just a smidge of pressure, because suddenly Megatron was sinking into a kneel. His attention didn’t stray from Ratchet again. Optimus was as transfixed as Jazz, his ex-vents breathy and wanting.
“Spike or valve?” Ratchet asked as he cupped Megatron’s face with both hands, holding Megatron’s gaze. “Do you have a preference?”
“For myself?”
“Yes.”
“Sp–” Megatron paused and licked his lips. “Spike,” he finished, and his gaze slid away, finding Optimus very briefly. The wanting in his optics was electric.
Ratchet hummed, his thumbs stroking gently over Megatron’s cheek spurs. “Oh, don’t worry about Optimus. I happen to know he’s very versatile.” A slow grin crawled over the medic’s lips. “What about Jazz and I? Can we touch you?”
“Isn’t that the point?” Megatron growled, trying for some of his bravado maybe, like he was starting to realize how deep he was falling, and shoved his claws into the sides of the hole.
Ratchet wasn’t one to be intimidated by a little roaring engine though. He just waited until the rev passed and said, “Not if you don’t want it to be.”
Megatron’s hands flicked in and out of a fist before relaxing. “I want you to.”
“Excellent.” Ratchet dragged a thumb over Megatron’s bottom lip before he dropped that hand to Megatron’s shoulder. He shifted to look at Optimus, and used his other hand to turn Megatron’s head in Optimus’ direction, too.
“Now, Optimus tends to spike,” Ratchet continued like he was an instructor and Megatron was the dutiful student. “Size differences being what they are, you know how that is. Which means, if you want to spike him, you’re going to have to do some work.”
Ratched raised his orbital ridges at Jazz, and Jazz quickly got the memo. He urged Optimus toward the low-slung berth he’d managed to get Ironhide to help him wrestle in here. There was a small trail of lubricant droplets behind Optimus – which meant he was already open and leaking.
Jazz shivered at the thought. He got Optimus into position, and put himself behind Optimus, so he could cradle Optimus’ upper half in his arms, let Optimus feel walled in by his legs and thighs. Like this, he felt every shudder and rev of Optimus’ engine, and the sticky-hot-want of Optimus’ field was intoxicating.
“You did such a good job on my valve, I told Optimus all about it,” Jazz said as Optimus moaned softly and parted his thighs, knees bent, presenting a path straight toward his valve for anyone interested in it. The sweet tang of his lubricant filled the air. “He’s been thinking about your mouth ever since.”
Optimus moaned; Megatron did, too.
Ratchet grinned, Cheshire-wide, and patted Megatron gently on the cheek. “I think it’s only fair, don’t you?”
Megatron’s glossa flicked over his lips. “Yes,” he rumbled.
“Good.” Ratchet let go of Megatron, who almost toppled forward as if the bare touch had been the only thing keeping him upright. “”Then you should get to work.”
Megatron stared at Ratchet for a moment, as if uncomprehending, before he lurched to his feet. His attention focused on Optimus and Optimus alone as he approached, devouring the curve of Optimus’ frame, the part of his thighs, the slick that no doubt soaked the berth pad beneath Optimus’ aft.
He didn’t go straight for Optimus’ valve. No, he started at Optimus’ ankles, his palms sliding up Optimus’ shins to his knees. There was worship in the careful touches, appreciation, and Jazz didn’t miss that both Optimus and Megatron shuddered at the first touch.
Jazz lightly stroked Optimus’ arms, occasionally pressing kisses to his neck column, but kept quiet. He didn’t want to interrupt this.
Megatron’s hands stroked along the inside of Optimus’ thighs. Optimus sucked in a vent, legs falling open to the furthest stretch of his gimbals. They would have toppled off the berth if Megatron hadn’t caught them with a firm grip on the back of Optimus’ knees. He turned his head, pressing a kiss to the nearest knee, and lust poured off both of them in waves.
Frag.
Jazz throbbed with want. They were too sexy together. This was dangerous. He was going to end up on fire if he stayed here, but damn if he was going to move.
Ratchet loitered in the background, watching with a keen optic for safety, looking as if he was unaffected, but Jazz knew better. Ratchet’s optics were just a touch brighter, a touch bluer, and his armor flared to vent excess heat.
Megatron’s lips dragged down the inside of Optimus’ thigh, achingly slow toward the apex of his thighs, and Jazz felt as teased as Optimus did. Optimus made a strangled sound, canting his hips upward.
“…Please,” he groaned, and Jazz groaned with him. That single request vibrated through Optimus’ entire frame, and though he hadn’t begged, Megatron’s optics darkened as if Optimus had.
He slid forward, hands bracing Optimus’ legs until he had them settled over his shoulders and his mouth within inches of Optimus’ valves.
“Of all the times I dreamed of you begging, it compares nothing to reality,” Megatron rumbled before he descended, pressing a wet kiss on Optimus who shuddered from head to toe, hips tilting further upward.
Jazz couldn’t see what Megatron was doing from this angle. He had only the sounds, Optimus’ reactions to go by, and his own memories of Megatron’s skills. He felt Optimus’ hands form fists against his stomach. He felt the tension in Optimus’ frame as he surged up toward Megatron’s mouth. He heard the wet, slick sounds of a glossa consuming Optimus’ most intimate places. He heard Megatron make noises of content.
Jazz had to offline his visor and draw in a deep breath to capture some semblance of control, but it didn’t help. He could still hear them, could feel every tremble, every rise and fall of Optimus’ field, the tension in his partner’s frame.
Metal shifted on metal. Jazz looked up, found Ratchet closer, a hand on Megatron’s head and sliding down, petting their beautiful Decepticon everywhere he could reach. Megatron moaned against Optimus’ valve, and Optimus gasped, hips surging up.
“Please,” he said again, and Jazz clutched at Optimus’ upper arms, unconsciously rocking at Optimus’ back. Sheer force of will kept his equipment stowed, though his spike throbbed, and his valve pulsed.
“Tell me,” Megatron growled, and he glanced up, his face slick with Optimus’ lubricant, naked want in his optics. “Tell me you want it, Prime.”
Optimus’ field burned. His engine rumbled at a faster cadence, but he lifted his head from Jazz’s shoulder. He couldn’t see the look on Optimus’ face, but he saw the reflection of desire in Megatron’s optics.
“I want it,” Optimus said clearly, his vocals so heavy they throbbed in Jazz’s chassis. “I want you.”
Oh, frag.
Jazz’s knees pressed in on Optimus’ hips. He gripped Optimus’ upper arms and wrestled control away from his interfacing array, burying his forehelm against the back of Optimus’ shoulders.
These two were illegal together.
Megatron growled, and Jazz had used that description before, but he’d been wrong. Those weren’t growls. Those had been gentle purrs, low rolling vibrations. The deep, bassy sound that came out of Megatron was a lip-snarl, a heavy rumble that was nearly a roar.
He snatched hold of Optimus’ hips, pulling him closer, and he fitted himself between Optimus’ thighs, hips rolling forward, spikehead grinding against the swollen folds of Optimus’ valve. Optimus tossed his head back, tried to roll up to meet Megatron, vents hiccuping. Jazz stumbled off the berth, getting out of the way before he ended up with incidental dents.
“You want this?” Megatron all but snarled as he rutted against Optimus but not in him, spike grinding over the exterior of Optimus’ valve, skipping across his swollen anterior nub.
“Yes!”
Megatron’s grip on Optimus’ hip tightened. He pulled back, angled himself, and slid home, the entire length of his spike filling Optimus in one long thrust. They groaned in tandem, Optimus’ thighs trembling, Megatron’s head dipping on a sharp gasp.
“Don’t stop,” Optimus ground out, rocking down on Megatron’s spike with needy intent. “Make me feel it.”
Megatron’s optics flashed. “I’ll make you remember me.” He licked his lips, still wet with Optimus’ slick, and then he started to move.
He set up a pace that was slow and deep, just hard enough to jolt Optimus on the berth. It creaked beneath them, Optimus’ heels drumming dings into Megatron’s dorsal armor, not that it seemed Megatron cared.
“Frag,” Jazz breathed and staggered toward Ratchet on shaky legs, backing blindly toward the medic because he was frankly incapable of keeping his gaze off the two of them.
There was a scrape of metal on concrete before Jazz realized Ratchet had dragged a chair close enough to the action to see everything without getting in the way. He was sitting down now, and the moment Jazz was in arm’s reach, Ratchet yanked him down into the medic’s lap.
“Ya read my mind, doc,” Jazz said as he leaned back against Ratchet’s chassis, still perfectly capable of seeing Megatron and Optimus together, which was better than any shred of porn he’d managed to save from pre-war times.
“We’re going to talk later,” Ratchet said, because of course he had perfect control of himself right now when Jazz thought he was going to burn up from all the need throbbing through his lines.
“Of course we are,” Jazz said as he spread his legs to either side of Ratchet’s and ground his aft down against Ratchet’s, valve springing open. “But after you get your spike in me.”
Ratchet chuckled and hooked an arm around his waist, anchoring Jazz to him. “Enjoying the show then?”
“Your armor is practically cookin’ me. Don’t lie and tell me you aren’t,” Jazz retorted as he twisted his hips, leaving a smear against Ratchet’s plating. “Come on, doc. Fill me up.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Ratchet said, but the distinct snick of a panel sliding open was immediately followed by the nudge of a spikehead against Jazz’s valve.
He groaned and sank down, valve immediately spiraling tight. Jazz leaned back into Ratchet’s embrace, rocking his hips to the same relentless rhythm of Megatron surging into Optimus’ valve, their frames impacting.
Megatron shifted, tilting forward, hands braced to the berth above Optimus’ shoulders, changing the angle of penetration. Optimus babbled a heavy cry, shuddering from head to toe. Static crawled over his armor and then Megatron’s mouth crashed over Optimus’ with what had to be a deep, fierce kiss.
“We could sell this and make a fortune,” Ratchet said, his free hand taking Jazz’s chin and tilting his head to the side so he could get his mouth on Jazz’s neck column.
Jazz groaned. “One step at a time, Ratch. One step at a time.”
He couldn’t think about profit right now, not when two of the hottest mechs in Cybertron’s existence were fragging like it was the only chance they were going to get. When heat poured off them in visible waves, and the sound of their fragging made desire twist and tangle in Jazz’s abdomen.
It became a blur after that – Ratchet fragging him over and over, the both of them getting off to the sight of Megatron and Optimus enjoying each other. Their first overloads were quickly followed by Megatron pulling out, flipping Optimus to his front, and plunging back into him again while Optimus moaned and canted his hips up, tips of his feet digging into the floor to get a better angle.
They fragged like two mechs who had a lifetime of sexual tension to get out of their system, and they weren’t wrong in Jazz’s opinion.
He and Ratchet forced them apart after round three if only to shove coolant and energon into their mouths, and to free Optimus from the confines of the ropes before he started losing sensation in his arms. Optimus was especially cuddly as Ratchet freed him, giving Jazz sloppy kisses with satisfaction humming in his field.
Megatron sat within reach like a good mech, drinking his fluids, tilting his head up for a pet by Ratchet now and again, dazed and obedient. Jazz couldn’t be more pleased with himself. Once again, he was right. Just like he’d been right when he convinced Bluestreak to take Sunstreaker to heel, and he’d whispered all the right words into Prowl’s audial to convince him to take his shot with Wheeljack.
Jazz was a matchmaking genius.
“Don’t look so smug,” Ratchet snorted as he removed the last of the rope and carefully bundled it up for later care. It vanished into subspace.
Jazz gathered Optimus into his arms as best he could and dug his fingers into Optimus’ shoulders, little pulses of magnetics easing the discomfort of twenty minutes spent bound. Optimus purred and mouthed at his intake, so in the zone that he barely registered the conversation around him.
“I can be as smug as I want,” Jazz declared with a head tilt toward Megatron. “I’m always right.”
Ratchet rolled his optics, but then his face went all soft and Dom as he looked at Megatron, cupped his face, and tilted him up for a kiss. One that Megatron melted into, leaning in toward Ratchet like a solar panel trying to catch the last bit of sunlight for the day.
Megatron’s spike twitched, beginning to pressurize, but he didn’t raise his hands to touch. He kept them politely resting on his thighs, until Ratchet deepened the kiss, both hands on Megatron’s face, holding him there for the hard press of Ratchet’s glossa. The two of them shuddered, and then Ratchet sank down into Megatron’s lap.
“Hands on my hips,” he ordered against Megatron’s lips. “But don’t move.” And he didn’t have to ask twice.
Megatron groaned, clapping his hands to Ratchet’s hips as his spike continued to pressurize. Ratchet rolled his hips, valve leaving smears of lubricant on the head of Megatron’s spike. He teased Megatron, grinding the wet pleats over the sensitive head, teasing Megatron to full pressurization as he gnawed on Megatron’s intake column.
Desire made Megatron tremble, but he never once disobeyed. His hands flexed, fingers dancing patterns on Ratchet’s hips. His vents roared to dispel heat, he begged “please” in a throaty rumble Jazz would be fantasizing about for weeks, until Ratchet finally took some pity and sank down, riding Megatron at his own pace.
It was a show that stirred Jazz’s own spike to life, and he didn’t even have to ask Optimus to help him out. Optimus was already tugging Jazz’s spike to his lips, moaning as he licked and sucked, hips rocking on nothing.
Megatron had a spike preference, Jazz knew, but he still hoped one day to see Megatron fall apart beneath Optimus. If there was a mech who knew how to use his spike, it was definitely Optimus, and all those fun ridges and whorls that came on it were something no one should miss. Not even Megatron.
Jazz lost count of how many overloads each of them managed. Or whose spike went where, or whose hands slapped whose aft. They exchanged partners as the whim claimed them, though it was Optimus and Megatron who seemed to have the most energy for one last coupling, something slow and savoring, face to face, spikes grinding together as they messily kissed, more sharing vents than anything else.
Jazz was a sated sprawl atop Ratchet’s chassis, frame buzzing from too much pleasure, his valve aching in the best ways, and feeling even more smug than before. His spike couldn’t even manage a twitch as Optimus and Megatron overloaded together, weak spurts of transfluid that painted each other’s chassis.
“I sure hope no one planned to go anywhere,” Jazz said as he clutched Ratchet’s chassis and refused to move.
“The berth is more than big enough for all of us,” Ratchet grunted as he lifted Jazz and dropped him unceremoniously toward the tangle of Optimus and Megatron, laying exhausted and condensation soaked in the center of the berth.
Jazz squeaked, but let himself be grabbed by Optimus and pulled in against his partner’s back like a mismatched jetpack. Optimus’ field was warm and fuzzy, full of sated wonder, and he turned on his back, slinging an arm over Jazz’s shoulders to tuck him against his side.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“Aw, boss. Ya know ya never need to say that,” Jazz said, though he looked over the rise of Optimus’ chassis toward the Decepticon warlord sprawled on his back and panting faintly. “Could stand ta hear it from you though, Megatron.”
Megatron’s answer was to raise a single hand and salute Jazz with a middle finger. Which just proved he wasn’t completely unaware of human culture.
“None of that now,” Ratchet said, giving Megatron’s hand a gentle smack. He had a meshcloth, which he tossed in Jazz’s direction. “Here. Take care of your sub.” It smacked Jazz in the face.
Fair enough Ratchet.
“Sub?” Megatron echoed with a curious lilt in his voice.
Jazz pulled away the cloth and sat up, noting that Ratchet had already wiped himself clean, but was now attending to Megatron with another mesh cloth, smacking away Megatron’s attempts to do it himself. Megatron eventually stopped trying.
“Short for submissive,” Ratchet grunted after shooting Jazz another look of ‘we’re going to talk later’ which Jazz waved off. Yeah, yeah. He should’ve known better.
Megatron reared back with a look of affront. “Prime is not–”
“It doesn’t mean what you think it means,” Ratchet interrupted in a tart tone, though his hands were unfailingly gentle. “Anything hurt?”
“Of course not,” Megatron said, and now his field flickered with confusion and no small measure of bewilderment. “We were interfacing, not brawling.”
Ratchet sighed.
But it was Optimus who rested a hand on Megatron’s arm and said, “He’s asking out of courtesy, Megatron. Ratchet feels responsible for your well-being.” He gave the arm a gentle pat before retracting the touch.
“He’s a medic,” Megatron said as if that could be the only logical explanation.
Jazz sighed as Ratchet shot him a look and raised his hands. “Fine, fine. It’s my fault.” He tossed the dirtied cloth toward the floor and leaned on Optimus’ chassis so he could see Megatron. “What we did, that was a scene, yeah? Ratchet led most of it, I did the rest, you and Optimus listened to us, ergo, Ratchet takes care of us after. Get it?”
Megatron frowned. “Scene?”
A dirty cloth smacked Jazz in the face as Ratchet snapped, “That is the most inadequate explanation I have ever heard a Dominant give, which is frankly embarrassing since I’m the one who trained you.”
Jazz pried the sticky cloth from his face and frowned. “Gross.” He tossed it to the floor with a wet plop.
Ratchet ignored him, his attention returning to Megatron as he braced his arms on the edge of the berth. “It is and isn’t complicated. What happened tonight can be nothing more than a fun time if you prefer.” He paused, cycled a ventilation. “Or if you’d like to know more, I’ll give you my comm and we can talk.”
Oh.
Jazz zipped his mouth shut and watched, vents caught in anticipation as Megatron seemed to give the offer due consideration.
Megatron swung his legs over the edge of the berth, and Ratchet moved away to give him room to stand. “I should return to the Nemesis,” he said.
“You’re welcome to stay,” Ratchet said, too slow to hide the disappointment in his optics.
Megatron shook his helm and slipped from the berth. “As much as it pains me to admit, you have more capable leadership to keep your mechs in line than I do.” He paused, and his mouth crooked in a genuine, if not sharp, smile. “If I’m not there to terrorize them, how will they know to behave?”
Ratchet barked a laugh. “Fair enough.”
Megatron took another handful of steps away from the berth, halfway to the sliding door exit, when he stopped and looked back at Ratchet. “I’m available again in three days. Prime has my comm,” and then he kept going as if he hadn’t just said “call me!” over his shoulder to Ratchet before skedaddling.
The door shrieked open and rattled close behind Megatron, leaving them to clean up the mess, in more ways than one.
Jazz chuckled and sprawled on top of Optimus. “When are the two of ya gonna realize that I’m always right?”
Ratchet hauled himself onto the berth and lazily swatted Jazz’s aft before he could roll out of the way. “I distinctly remember telling you that not everyone knows how to properly scene, you aft,” he said, though it was with a resigned irritation. “For that, I want you in my medbay first thing in the morning. That good with you, Prime?”
Optimus curved one arm around Jazz, pinning him in place. “Consider it official orders,” he rumbled sleepily.
Ratchet’s grin was a thing of nightmares. And here Jazz thought getting him fragged would fix things.
Oh well. Jazz was one mech sacrificed for the good of many.
“Fine,” he muttered. “But you can still say I was right, because I was. You and Megatron will be good together.”
Ratchet sprawled onto the space Megatron abandoned, a bit of distance between himself and Optimus until Optimus got a grip on him and reeled him closer. Liked to cuddle, their Prime did, and the more the merrier. Ratchet’s protest was token at best.
“That’s not the point,” Ratchet sniffed, which was pretty much conceding Jazz’s point.
Jazz grinned and snuggled closer to his mech, who was already drifting off to recharge with those cute snuffles in his vents.
He had the best ideas.
***
Pandora's Box 