Optimus Prime shifted on his pedes. He flexed his wrists and servos. They were bound behind him. He couldn’t see his Handler, somewhere to his left, but the blinkers buckled to each side of his face allowed him to see directly ahead of himself and further into the breeding shed, where his Mate waited for him.
His Handler was currently gently scrubbing down Optimus’s hips, legs, pedes, and modesty panels with solvent and disinfectant. It wouldn’t do to pass anything untoward to the mech he would be breeding today. Optimus quieted the part of his processor that found this part of their game especially silly and refocused himself on the scene with a little roll of his optics. He could see his Mate shifting on his own pedes, still dripping from the hips down. He had been cleansed by his their Handler before Optimus had been fetched and tacked and brought to the shed. His Mate was leaning against a low padded wall, helm pillowed by his arms resting atop it. His Handler had placed a small pile of rubber mats down to help with the height difference between Optimus and the smaller black and white frame of his Mate.
His Mate was dutifully hobbled, his legs strategically wrapped in padding. This was to protect Optimus from any excited scrambling or impatient kicking. His Mate was in “heat”, after all. Optimus himself was wearing a sturdy mesh muzzle to protect the other mech from his own signature love bites.
His Handler reached between Optimus’s smooth silver thighs and released the cover for his spike. It happily pressurized right into his Handler’s gentle servo, while he sprayed cool disinfectant over it from the hose.
“There you are, big guy,” His Handler crooned, gently patting him on the rump. “All done. Now, I know you’re all pent up, but I also know that you can be so very good for me.”
Optimus dropped his heavy helm. He twisted his neck until he could just see a hint of his Handler’s spark-blue visor and proud grin around the blinkers. His spark warmed with affection and trust and other feelings that both his own processor and the matrix struggled to pin down.
His Handler clicked his glossa to him and led them both forward with an air of assured confidence. His Handler gently tugged on the lead that connected to his stud chain. The chain had been twined around and under Optimus’s helmcollar, behind the back of his helm and through his mouth. Optimus could see his Mate shift and arch before him, spreading his legs and displaying the wet, puffy valve between them.
He was only a few steps away-!
Optimus jolted when he was tugged to a halt. The stud chain tightened through his mouth and behind his helm, squeezing him in a way that absolutely delighted his aroused processor. He gasped through his intake. This was going to drive him delirious.
“Just wanna make sure you’re both completely ready and set up for success.” His Handler had produced warmed lube from somewhere and suddenly was stroking Optimus’s heavy spike. His Handler thumbed at the ridge beneath his spikehead with one servo, and used the other to glide the lube over the length, putting a delightful amount of pressure on the biolights that glowed on either side of his shaft.
Optimus’s gasps had turned into ragged venting, and he squeezed his optics shut before snapping them back open lest he miss out on a single moment of watching his Mate squirm only a few short meters away. His Mate’s pretty valve was absolutely dripping, the bright red and white nodes swollen and blinking as if begging for his Stud’s attention. His elegant door wings were spread wide and high, held in a proud position that was belied by trembling from the strength of his arousal. Optimus clenched his dentae. He longed to sink his teeth into those sensitive wings when he mounted his Mate, but was specifically barred from fulfilling this desire courtesy of the blasted muzzle his Handler had oh-so-lovingly strapped to his helmcollar.
Just when he felt he couldn’t stand it any longer, his Handler released his spike, leaving it hard and bobbing in the air, lube dripping and evaporating from his overheated protoform and intimate plating. His Handler let go of his lead, and Optimus knew he had been ground tied.
A “be good” was tossed over his Handler’s shoulder.
His Handler stepped forward and began soothingly stroking over his Mate’s shiny rump, down over his shapely thighs, and to his open modesty panel. His Handler sank to his knees and began to gently and ever so slowly run the tip of one servo over his Mate’s primary exterior node, red and blinking lazily. His Mate arched his back most beautifully, helm rising from where he had been resting it against the padded wall. Optimus could see the light glinting off of his Mate’s pretty red chevron. Optimus had the absurd, lust-fuelled thought that his Mate’s chevron and his node were the same cheery cherry red and that there were very very few mechs privy to this information besides himself and his Handler.
His Handler had moved on to slowly pumping two servos in and out of his Mate’s valve. His thumb brushed over the white auxiliary nodes to either side of the valve entrance, then to the primary red node, then back again; each getting proper attention in turn. His Mate’s valve was beyond dripping now, and this did nothing to calm Optimus. He was fully aware that they were both being teased.
His Handler was crooning out a litany of praises to them both. He was making a show of testing the stretch of the leaking valve, spreading and scissoring with one set of servos while patting and stroking the trim waist and rounded rump of the black and white mech with the other.
Optimus shifted on his pedes once more, adding a little stomp and undignified huff in order to properly express his impatience.
His Handler's visor flashed at him in his equivalency of a wink.
“I'm sure it'll be an easy slide home now. You're both doing so well.” His Handler rose from his knees and once more grabbed Optimus's lead. He gently clicked at him and tugged him forward, guiding Optimus's bulk to where his Mate needed his Stud the most.
After a couple of frustratingly blind, inaccurate thrusts, his Handler mercifully reached between them and lifted Otpimus's spike to press to his Mate’s valve entrance. In one slow, full body movement, Optimus's spike slid into soft, slick, molten heat. He could feel his Mate’s interior calipers tremble, tighten and release; each in turn as they adjusted to the intrusion. His Mate let out a long exvent, letting his helm fall once more, chevron first against the padded wall.
Once his spikehead was kissing his Mate’s ceiling node and the entrance to his forge, Optimus paused. His Handler chose this moment to wrap the lead twice around his servo tight and tug firmly down.
“Let's give him a moment to adjust, big guy.”
Optimus fully closed his optics now, leaning his helm back as he felt his Mate’s valve continue to adjust and unintentionally milk him. It was absolutely heavenly.
His Handler reached up with his unoccupied servo and stroked over his flank and back. He whispered more blessed praises. Optimus felt like he was floating, so safe and loved. His mind focused solely on his duty as a stud. His Handler’s Stud. His Mate’s Stud. It felt like the weight of a thousand worlds had fallen from his shoulders and slipped from his mind.
Beneath him, his Mate began to once more shift impatiently, pushing himself impossibly further back onto Optimus’s spike. Optimus grunted and gave a stilted jolt of an aborted thrust before forcing himself to hold still. His Handler wanted him to hold still. In this moment, he would do anything to make his Handler proud.
“There ya are. Easy…” He felt his Handler’s servos leave him and Optimus opened his eyes to track the movement. His Handler reached out to grasp his Mate’s door wings and give them a sharp little tug.
Prowl keened.
Optimus dropped his helm forward, down into the space between those beautiful, ever so appealing wings and lightly nuzzled his muzzled face into the hot metal. He longed to lick a stripe down Prowl’s central spinal strut. Give a teasing nip to the hinged joints where his wings emerged from his solid back plating. Feel the metal resist and finally give way and form cute little dents beneath his insistent dentae.
Optimus rumbled his engine, low and rolling, deep inside his chassis. He longed to mark and claim his little mate. Just as much, he knew he had been muzzled for a reason. He needed to show his Handler that he could be trusted to only use his glossa and dentae when explicitly allowed and not a moment outside of that, despite the strength of his instinctual urges.
Prowl pressed himself back and up, molding himself to Optimus’s form. Optimus rumbled his powerful engine once more, hoping for it to be a soothing gesture to the mech beneath him who was doing such a wonderful job adjusting to such a big, thick spike. That was the wording his Handler used, stroking one servo up and down the sensitive edge of one door wing while using the other servo to give teasing flicks to his Mate’s primary node.
“There now. How lovely you both are,” he was murmuring, turning his helm to press an almost chaste kiss to Optimus’s shoulder armor. “You’re being such a good stud, soothing our Prowler like that, Oppy.”
Optimus felt his optics spark up with emotion. His spinal strut relaxed a bit more and he pulled his helm up from his spot between Prowl’s wings. He had to turn his face fully to the side to get a good view of Jazz’s face with the blinkers, but when Jazz caught sight of his wide, fizzling optics he pulled his servo from Prowl’s wing and wrapped it around the back of Optimus’s helm. He pulled Optimus’s helm close to his own, pressing their forehelms together.
“You’re being so so wonderful. It’s absolutely beautiful. You’re such a gift to us both.”
Optimus pushed his helm against Jazz’s, seeking contact, sensation, anything to ground him in this whirlwind of affection and lust and gratitude and wanting he was feeling.
“You ready to fill him up, baby?”
Optimus could only groan in reply, hips stuttering once more. Only his Handler could make him feel denied while fully sheathed in a fluttering valve.
His Handler leaned over to nuzzle Optimus’s audial.
“Go ahead.”
Optimus obeyed, hips drawing back, pulling his spike so excruciatingly slowly out of the wet, tight heat, reveling in the friction. He thrust back in, wrenching an absolutely sinful noise out of his Mate.
“Yes. So, so good.”
The praise pushed Optimus even deeper into his willing submission, struts and cables loosening. He continued to thrust in languid, fluid motions. He steadily built to an even, consistent pace. He could feel his Handler’s servos flitting between both his body and his Mate’s, stroking, teasing, soothing. Optimus lost himself to the motions and his Mate’s pleading whimpers and twitching and trembling doorwings. He was vaguely aware of the noise of modesty panels transforming away and his Handler nestling closer to them both with his own servos stroking his primary node and his spike. Each stroke along his Handler’s spike tugged on the lead still wrapped around his servo. Optimus allowed his helm to be tugged lower, pleasure rolling down his back. Behind the muzzle, his intake hung open, the slightest bit of oral lubricant building and dripping down.
He was distantly aware that he should be embarrassed about that.
Optimus felt their building charges leap and snap between their bodies. His Handler had been hiding how worked up he was, and the sheer strength of his lustful pulses were becoming nearly overwhelming to Optimus, much less his Mate, who was alternating between mewling and wet sobs, legs trembling as he struggled to stay upright. Otimus feverishly joined his Mate in his cries. He so longed to wrap his own sturdy servos around his Mate’s trim waist to support him, to press their forms even closer together, just as he longed to taste and explore the sensitive interlocking plating of his Mate’s neck with his intake and glossa. The denial was a torture of the most delicious kind.
Optimus quickened his pace.
His Mate cried out as a sharp bolt of charge lept from Optimus’s body and threw him into overload. His whole form gave a great shudder. His wanton cries fizzled out into a flurry of static. He very nearly toppled, if it weren’t for the padded wall.
The tight, rhythmic clenching brought Optimus right to the edge.
Spurred by one last sharp tug of the stud chain and a well-timed “Go on. Be perfect for us,” Optimus fully buried himself with one last powerful thrust, and, with a deep deep engine rumble and a drawn-out moan, pumped his transfluid into his Mate’s forge.
His Handler practically fell into Optimus’s side, painting their legs and pedes with his own release.
After a few moments to reboot his processor and return to reality, Jazz started moving first. He leaned over to press a series of kisses to both Prowl’s easily accessible back and Optimus’s equally accessible shoulder. He reached behind Optimus to untie his servos, and Optimus joined him in releasing Prowl from his hobbles and padding. Last to go was Optimus’s helmcollar. The muzzle, blinkers, and stud chain each had to be removed in reverse order of how they had been applied. When he had unbuckled the muzzle, Jazz looped a servo into the cheekpiece of the helmcollar and tugged the bigger mech down for a lingering kiss. Their untacking was briefly derailed by Optimus nuzzling his faceplates into any part of Prowl that he could reach.
“Enough,” Prowl whined, squirming under his lover’s ministrations. “We can cuddle all you want in berth after we clean up!”
“But you’re so lovely. It’s very hard to resist,” Optimus rumbled.
Jazz had procured damp cleaning cloths from his subspace and proceeded to wipe down their interface arrays before prompting Prowl and then Optimus to close up their modesty paneling.
“No need to traumatize any ex-Cons or Neutrals.” Jazz joked, patting both of his lovers on the rump as they headed out the door.
”I wouldn’t enjoy traumatizing any of our own, either.” Optimus replied. He pushed his content EM field outward, enveloping Jazz and Prowl like a blanket.
“As if they aren’t already traumatized by high command becoming an item as soon as the war ended.” Prowl slipped back into his typical blunt language patterns.
The three of them had, inevitably, become quite close over the course of The War. Who could Optimus trust if not his ever-capable high-command? Who could they trust if not their leader, hand-chosen by Primus?
Post-War, Jazz and Prowl had begun courtship in earnest, no longer content to only burn off extra charge together in stolen moments. Some time after that, the pair had invited Optimus to join them in the berth for what Jazz had called “necessary destressing”. It had been a wonderful and surprisingly emotionally vulnerable experience, and of course all three caught feelings.
Optimus happily hummed to himself as his two lovers curled up together at his side. Arranged like this, he could curl an arm around both of them at once. They made such a pretty picture together, his little loves. Optimus filed this memory away in long-term storage like he had so many other domestic scenes.
When the new cycle began, they would continue the difficult work of rebuilding Cybertron, but, for now, they would recharge together.