[Fic] Seven Days -- Part 1/7: (Monday) Prime Time

Aug 15, 2007 20:20

Title: Seven Days -- Part 1/7: (Monday) Prime Time
Author: Lyricality (lyricality)
Rating: M/NC-17 for graphic sparksex
Pairings: Eventual Bee/everyone. In this part, Optimus/Bee with mention of Sam/Bee.
Disclaimer: No, Transformers doesn't belong to me. I'm sure you're all just as shocked and disappointed as I am. All characters are of legal age.
Note/Summary: Blame nemi_chan and her marvelous prompt o' doom, in which Bumblebee is the resident pleasurebot of the Autobots. And yes, the title is meant to be as porntastically cheesy as possible. I'm taking suggestions for later chapter titles. Muahaha? I am going to the Special Hell.


Once he had dismissed them from the briefing, Optimus went alone to his private quarters, the double doors sliding softly shut behind him. Bumblebee followed. He used the frequency given only to him, first on Cybertron, later on the Ark, and now here, in their new home as well. The doors opened and he slipped through before they could close again.

“Did you forget?” he asked, but gently. Patience.

Optimus did not quite turn; he had not forgotten. The glance he cast over one shoulder fell heavily on Bee, weighted with hesitation, or perhaps with responsibility. “Are you certain of this?” He paused only to look away again. “It is not a duty I would have you resume...unwillingly.”

Bee made a little scoffing sound. He had responsibilities, too. “Duty isn’t the only reason I’ve chosen this.”

“You’ve chosen more than us,” Optimus reminded him, then turned at last to meet him face to face.

Not fair. But Bee had his counter-argument ready. Reaching up, up, he couldn’t quite grasp Optimus’ shoulders, but their leader nevertheless bent to his will, taking a seat on one of the metal shelves designed for the purpose. That brought them almost to a level. “Did you resent it? When I chose to stay with Sam?”

“Of course not.” Optimus had to make a swift adjustment for balance, lifting one tremendous hand and curling it against Bee’s back when he shifted forward, crouching just over knees so much larger than his own.

Bee settled in, bracing himself. Were he human, he would be sitting in Optimus’ lap, and wires brushed wires in crackling jolts of sensation. “I knew you wouldn’t.” Their Prime was ever generous.

“Your choices are your own, Bumblebee,” he said, leaning back against the wall to lend them better support. His optics narrowed as he sent them scanning over Bee’s current position, but amusement buzzed beneath the deeper rumble of his voice. “Always learning, I see.” Those optics unfocused for just an instant, and Bee had the uneasy feeling that he must be searching the internet, choosing the best way to respond to an unquestionably human technique of seduction. A moment later and his free hand gripped at Bee’s aft, dragging him closer, and Bee made a low-pitched note of laughter. Optimus gave him a rather human chuckle in response. “You adapt so easily, and so well. It is an immeasurably valuable skill, and I admire you for it.”

Touched, Bee remembered to let go all of his usual shields--even the last few of his face guards. They were unnecessary here.

“I admire everything about you.”

Once upon a time, he would have said it more fervently, every word and tone and action begging Prime to believe him, to believe in him. Now it was simply true, and needed no other punctuation. Even so, Optimus must have sensed something of that former hero-worship in his limited range of expression, because his grip loosened, the tension easing out of his body as he cupped the back of Bee’s head in one hand. He pulled Bee’s head against his shoulder, the other arm sliding around him in an embrace utterly universal in its meaning of comfort and protection.

Bee was touched anew.

“Please.” He didn’t want to disrupt this moment, or this silence between them, but he did want to give what he could in return. “Let me...” He slipped his hand between them, touching his fingers one after another along the smooth ridges of Optimus’ chest, metal skimming across glass and scraping over metal.

The friction sent a slow shudder through both of them, and Optimus loosened his hold to put a little space between them. That was permission enough.

Before he had learned how to use it, he had disliked his own delicacy. Now he rejoiced in his small size, loving the way his fingers could slide into narrow gaps, stimulating delicate wiring without exposing it. He stroked along the splice of one wire to another, following it upward to the rougher metal of a motor that activated under his touch. Optimus went restless under his fingers, pressing back and pulling away. He fought pleasure as much as he longed for it; that was his way. Bee had devoted a number of years to understanding each of his companions so well, and he valued that knowledge more deeply than any other bit of information he’d tucked away into his processors.

Experience had taught him a great deal. He could use it to his advantage now, fingers skimming metal plating and sliding beneath it, seeking and finding the best place to press, so that Optimus tossed his head and hissed like escaping steam when his outer armor released.

The chest plates glided away to either side, and Bee could slip his fingertips beneath the next layer of armor to touch the spark casing directly. Gently, gently. Trembling hands clenched against him in return, tighter and too tight, his own armor protesting with a low groan. The grip immediately eased, and those hands curled beneath him instead, holding him steady. Bee wasted no more time, his touch firm as he pushed the last defenses aside. With great care, his hands framed the center of Optimus’ chest, and he waited with the proper measure of respect until Optimus released the casing himself.

This was an honor. To touch this spark, to shiver when its energy moved through him, and to know how very few others had ever received the same gift... That left him truly voiceless as Megatron never had.

Of their own volition, his fingers skated along the narrow edges of armor, making Optimus shift and groan and fall willfully silent again. So much tension ran through the hands supporting Bee, so much force that could be used but wouldn’t, and in response to that stress, he made a delicate turn of his wrist and dipped his fingers into pure energy. The spark brightened in return and started a steady pulse.

Bee drew his fingers back, tendrils of light following, luring him in again. A spark had no mass, no weight, but it had a gravity all its own. Who was he to resist?

Beneath him, supporting him, Optimus made a higher and softer sound, his optics narrowed to blazing slits and his fingers tracing not-quite-meaningless patterns over Bee’s armor. Every touch wound the tension tighter, until Bee could see the strain sparking in coils of wire and flexing in plates of metal. How long since Optimus had felt this? Since their last time together. Before Earth. Before Sam.

Energy trailed along his hand, igniting his fingers in threads of false blue flame, and he trembled. “Do you want-”

“Yes.” He had earned a moment’s respite while Optimus realigned them, bringing him closer. When one hand slipped between them, Bee went as still as he possibly could, the very tip of a broad finger tracing the rims of his armor, not quite delving inside, not yet. Optimus kept such astonishing control in such mighty hands. Fingertips stroked and pressed, armor parting and sliding under that touch, shields slipping away to either side. Delicate pressure touched Bee again, and with a low hum and a flashed warning across his optics, Optimus teased open the last of his defenses to reveal his spark.

Bee moaned, the harsh edge of neglected brakes in the sound.

Just a moment of fumbling brought them together, chest to chest. Both sparks reached out in the language of light, connecting through thin filaments of electricity, drawing them closer yet. Bee grasped at Optimus’ shoulders as those powerful arms caught him and held him.

“Bumblebee,” Optimus gasped, and his arms tightened and then they both went still, locked in the frozen embrace of sparks touching, combining, joining.

Oh, yes. He looked forward to this, every time. Foreplay was lovely and pleasure was better yet, but nothing else compared to the strangely calming joy of touching Optimus Prime’s thoughts with his own. Such strength. Whenever he doubted their philosophy, whenever he questioned their mission, he could remember this, and the memory would correct his course and keep him true.

He brushed against superficial thoughts first. Pleasure at Bumblebee’s company. Satisfaction that they both could enjoy this intimacy. Hesitation, because Bee might take on too much, too soon, after surviving such extensive repairs. Bee lingered a moment, offering reassurances that he would do no such thing, but he could sense a heavier fear lurking just below that tranquil surface, and he pursued it. Optimus resisted for a few long seconds, but gave up when Bee reached for the emotion, catching a strand of fear and studying it with care.

Jazz, and his death. Bumblebee himself, losing his voice to Megatron’s vengeance. All for the Allspark. And it broke apart, scattering. Worthless.

Optimus rarely doubted himself; he rarely needed affirmation. No, Bee told him, here where speech required no words. Don’t fear that. His thoughts wove through Optimus’ with sensual steadiness, reaching into his subconscious to battle fear at its source. We all know the danger of serving the mission. We all know the possible price. We accept it.

In gentle argument, he sent other images. Jazz, still weak, but restored by the Allspark’s final shard. Sam, so beautiful and so fragile, risking his life to destroy the Allspark and Megatron in a single blow. Sam and Mikaela, together on the hood of his own alternate form. Sam.

Optimus was never one to take without giving. Bee felt his own thoughts examined, gently probed, and after a pause of unfocused hesitation he surrendered his emotions.

They shared a moment of profound understanding. Fear was shared, then soothed.

Loathe to let that connection go, Bee clung to the strong shafts of their leader’s confidence, but Optimus had already slid subtler strands of energy between their sparks, stimulating memory into reimagined reality.

Sam’s hands against interior leather. Fingers delving between the seats, searching. Sweat so slick against metal, followed by soap, followed by water, followed by sensation so keen that Bee strained against his own suspension, needing more. Primus, this wasn’t fair. He sunk all his senses into Optimus, seeking memories to stimulate in return, but Optimus had far better defenses than his own. His thoughts slipped off like water, but he came away with one raw memory, easily accessed because of its familiarity.

Sparks combined. Metal groaning. Pleasure deep and almost painful, like grounded lightning leaping from circuit to circuit...

...and Sam’s voice on a slow, satisfied groan, overheard with guilty pleasure after one late-night session of masturbation. Soft sounds through an open window, setting every sensor ablaze.

Bee cried out, a metallic shout because he could finally be heard. Energy swept through all his circuitry, white-hot ecstasy and exhilaration, and an answering surge sizzled through Optimus and back into their joined sparks. Bee’s optics crackled and flickered out.

In the darkness, Optimus’ thoughts wrapped around him, his leader still trembling but strong, so strong.

Bumblebee felt small and precious but regretful, too. He had meant to give, but he had been taken firmly spark to spark and had pleasure given back to him, instead. Someday he might be skilled enough to give Optimus Prime the complete surrender he so thoroughly deserved.

A softly grinding chuckle suggested that his thoughts had been overheard. His optics flicked on again, the world returning amidst a scattering of system reports, his body sprawled over his Prime’s with spark still touching spark. :Motor functions will resume in 10…9…8…: his interior scans promised.

“Bumblebee,” Optimus murmured, with a note of satisfaction in his voice that sent a tingling afterburn of bliss along Bee’s neural pathways. “I am happier than I can say, that you have chosen us as well as Sam.”

*****

Bee wasn’t late, but he was later than he had planned, by the time he pulled back into an empty space at the front of Tranquility High. Had he always lingered so much over one duty when another called him? Maybe he had. He had considered how long Optimus had endured without intimacy, how much he had needed a familiar touch, but he hadn’t considered his own needs.

And here came most of what he wanted, all needs aside, a warm bundle of skin and bone and unfocused energy, taking the stairs two at a time and singing “I am Superman” at the top of his lungs.

As always, Bee popped the driver’s side door open. And I can do anything, he let the radio add.

Sam slid behind the wheel and his hands touched, stroked without the slightest hesitation or insinuation. His entire body was tactile. A certain lingering sensitivity in Bee’s circuits made the boy almost maddeningly, almost wonderfully unendurable.

Entirely ignorant of his effect on his car, Sam drummed his fingers on the curve of the wheel and Bee remembered to start himself up, pulling out and heading for the Witwicky house. “Hey,” Sam was saying. “So I happened to take a little look outside during lunch and noticed that my car--my beautiful car, that I love--was not there, and that’s fine, but you usually tell me when you’re going somewhere, right?”

Bee switched the radio, scanning stations. Please forgive me, I know not what I do...

“Bee,” Sam groaned. “No sappy shit.”

More than a little pleased with himself, Bee spoke over the music. “I’m sorry, Sam. There was a briefing at headquarters. I forgot to mention it.” Maybe he’d been thinking too much of what would come afterward, and he spent a second or two on useless guilt over his neglect.

“That’s cool.” Sam never lingered over unintentional slights, and his forgiving nature made him all the more endearing. “Hey, Bee?” Sam was rummaging in his backpack instead of making the slightest pretense of driving, but Bee couldn’t bring himself to scold him. “What do you do? I mean, I know you’re a soldier, just... What do you do besides being my guardian?”

He let the radio fade a bit to answer clearly. “Oh. I am...” He conducted a brief search of the internet.

Or what he had assumed would be a brief search.

There was no word in English. Oh, plenty of words existed, but they were crude, derogatory, shameful. Bee quelled an unexpected surge of panic and gamely set to searching in other languages. He was not a geisha. Consultation of popular culture and media suggested that he was not a Companion, either. The only word that did not imply payment rendered, at least in Sam’s native language, was not one that Bee would use.

Apparently he was a whore.

Sam was waiting, and plainly he had realized something was wrong, because his teeth had started worrying his lower lip and he had reached out a hand. Bee felt the shock of warm contact through the dashboard. “Bee?”

“I am a...scout, Sam,” he finished weakly. Half the truth would have to do.

Sam appeared unconvinced. Justifiably so. “Right. Okay.” His hand shifted from the dashboard to the wheel, letting it turn under his fingers. If Bee considered himself delicate by Autobot standards, then Sam had all the hulking menace of a porcelain doll. Even so, those tiny hands could bring Bee to his knees. Thank what was left of the Allspark that he had too much self-control. “So. Does this mean you’ll be out and about more often, without me? Now that you’ve built...” He waved a hand, but Bee sensed that he was choosing his words with much more care than usual. “Headquarters, and all.”

“I must meet with Ironhide, tomorrow morning,” he admitted. “For...battle training.” He thought he’d kept the pause almost unnoticeable, but Sam had noticed, his brow furrowing in a way that Bee usually enjoyed. Just now, however, he hoped Sam wasn’t putting two and two together. Surely not.

Sam let out his breath. “Whatever you need to do, Bee.”

Even his wheels relaxed a bit in relief, gliding more easily along the road. Now if only Sam kept from asking any further questions about tomorrow. Or Wednesday.

Or Thursday.

He might never be able to fully explain his function among the Autobots to Sam--not without enduring outrage, disgust or perhaps worse.

Never before had he been ashamed of his duty. Uncertainty settled somewhere deep in his chest and started to grow, stretching out roots like wires into the darkness.

*****

fanfic, rated-m, spark sex, rated: nc-17

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