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Siren's Dance	By : TFNymphO Category: Transformers > G1 > Slash - M/M Views: 3073 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: do not own Transformers or anything remotely to do with them and make absolutely no money from writing this. It is just for fun!

Chapter List
- 1-The Song Begins
- 1
The time was approaching rapidly. Of that he had little doubt.
Sharp bursts of electricity had been arcing intermittently from his chest plates over the last week and a half. Thankfully, it had not happened during any of the recent battles or subsequent downtime that the Autobots had experienced. It would be a rather difficult thing to have to explain to any of the crew, let alone his CMO. The last thing that the deep red and blue mech wanted was to alarm his mechs with such an odd occurrence to them.
But the Matrix’s siren call was getting louder by the day and the Prime doubted that he would be able to hold back its song and resist its allure that much longer. The last time this had happened was back on Cybertron prior to when both the Decepticon and Autobot factions had been formed. There were of course some rogue cells causing havoc that would later prove to be under Megatron’s command, but at the time he had been blissfully unaware of such problems. And such ignorance had given way to such bliss.
During the Golden Age when life was so much more certain and controlled, he would have summoned mechs and femmes alike from all over Cybertron coming from practically every walk of life. Bots that he had never met nor even heard of, but knew them intimately well beyond their names. Designations that were felt spark-deep through the Matrix and perhaps even originating from Primus himself. Just as even now he knew the sparks that were to be selected. All of them Autobots. Each of them under his command, here on Earth.
If there was ever any doubt as to the sentience of the Matrix, the glowing orb did well to banish those thoughts each time it would initiate this ritual. Glancing down at the list of unique glyphs on his datapad, the larger mech casually brushed the fingertips of his free servo over still closed chestplates. The minor action momentarily soothed the ache that he felt through the overly warm plating as he contemplated the mechs named.
The list was complete. It was time to summon those that were called for.

Cool air lightly danced over all of the occupants in the room. The recreation room was not nearly full to capacity, but there were more than the usual number of mechs that would grace the common area. Each was clearly confused as to why they had been called here of all places by their leader. Many of there number had earlier been sent on various scouting and goodwill missions leaving the remaining crew to be assembled. Now they could not help, but shift and rustle in their plating with some unknown anxiousness that had crept into their frames.
A sharp screech and subsequent creak of the main doors sliding closed after eons of being left wide open had all of the mechs present turning quickly in shock. The booming voice of their Prime immediately snatched their attention back to the front as he calmly regarded each mech.
“My dear mechs, I apologize for all of the subterfuge and mystique in summoning you here. I realize you must all be extremely curious as to my reasons why.”
Glancing at his SIC and tactician standing rigidly towards the front of the assembly, the Prime was met with a quick nod of agreement, as well as a thoughtful frown. The doorwinged mech was definitely not one for surprises, particularly from his CO. He was obviously just as confused as the various bots around him and trying hard to hide it. Not that any of his apprehension would matter much to the black and white in a few moments, Optimus mused.
“Once every megavorn we are called upon by our ancestors for a great task. Our unintended sleep has delayed this from occurring as it should have, but now that we are all online and alive the time is now. You have all been selected by the Matrix to fulfill this task. An honor which very few have known and been privileged to experience during Cybertron’s existence.”
The large mech paused in his speech, marshalling himself for what was to come. Every optic in the room was watching him with rapt interest—a fact that pleased him. Smiling, the Prime withdrew his face mask for all to see the warm smile that graced his lips. There were more than a few gasps as some mechs in the room had never seen their leader without a battle mask covering his handsome faceplates. Stepping forward, the Prime finally (and gratifyingly) allowed his chestplates to split down the middle of his torso—parting and exposing a massive spark casing before his core moved down allowing the Matrix of Leadership to push forth from the very center of his being.
“Cybertronians—brothers—you have been called here for a noble purpose…”
Fierce blue light bathed the room and every mech within, originating from the spiraling open iris of the sacred artifact’s enclosure. The light generated by the brilliant corona that was the Matrix. A wave of pure energy flowed from within the core, pushing through each bot, overwhelming them and forcing lighting and electronics to dim in its wake. In the now darkened room it was difficult to tell, but the Prime could see the effect the exposed artifact was having. Each mech’s optics had darkened to a deep blue bordering on violet. Mechs’ respirations were becoming faster and heavier as the temperature in the room itself became warmer.
“…Each of you are here to ensure the future of our race—to bring forth the next generation of Cybertron’s children. Some of you are meant to be as carriers. Others hold the responsibility of being sires, but all shall come together and be as one.”
The deep voice, so similar and yet suddenly very different from the compassionate and authoritative mech that was their leader cut through to each mech’s core essence, onlining code that had been dormant since their individual moments of creation. Each unknowingly waiting for the right words and the right energy to suffuse their sparks and bring about a different and unique form of transformation.
Taking an involuntary step back, Prowl’s optics widened almost comically as he quickly shared a fearful look with the other black and white mech beside him.
“Jazz? What is going on?”
An overly bright visor met his optics and even from the respectful distance he was at the second could hear the rapid venting the saboteur was doing. Wiping a black servo across his forehelm, the other mech responded shakily.
“I dunno mech. Something’s not right. Primus. I feel strange and what was Prime saying about carriers an’ sires?”
Feeling a similar heat creeping through his plating the Datsun ran the back of an elegant white servo over his own brow.
“I do not know. I do not understand. We need to get out of here and figure out what is going on.”
Without turning his back to where his Prime had now taken a seat in a previously unnoticed throne-like chair, the tactician backed towards the still closed doors, Jazz following closely in clear fear and apprehension. Optics sharp and constantly scanning, the two passed several unusual pairings of mech that were suddenly seemingly amorous and not caring as to where they were or who they were around.
The two had almost made it to the doors when the intricate net of sensors adorning Prowl’s doorwings alerted him to a larger presence directly blocking his path of escape behind him. The black and white got not further than stopping suddenly before a set of broad arms encircled his waist and chest from behind, pulling his slender frame flush against a much broader, heated form.
Jazz’s surprised expression across from him mirrored his own as Prowl tilted his helm to see who was wrapped so firmly around his frame and realized with a start that it was the Autobot’s CMO. The medic’s faceplates were almost predatory as he pulled the smaller Datsun even closer still to his frame.
“Ratchet! What are you doing? Release me at once!”
The large, white mech merely smirked before nuzzling a conveniently located pearl white audio causing the black and white to stiffen. Trying to break the big mech’s hold was like trying to bend bars of strontium. With his arms pinned firmly to his sides, Prowl could do little more than squeak as the ambulance went from gently nuzzling his helm to mouthing the exposed lines of his dark throat—a warm, moist glossa roughly pushing along the softer metal before following with almost harsh sucking.
Unwillingly, the tactician found his frame responding disturbingly quick to the attention—warmth spreading throughout each limb before pooling hotly behind his suddenly too tight cod piece. Struggling more in earnest now, the tactician turned to where his friend was to see why he was just standing there and not helping him, but stopped his movement in shock. The black and white saboteur was being similarly restrained by Ironhide and appeared to be in no better a position as he too tried futilely to break free from the other mech’s grasp without resorting to more violent methods.
More unwitting warmth rushed through the smaller tactician’s systems as the medic behind him continued his oral assault on the deep black cabling of his main lines before using one hand to turn the SIC’s mouthplates to meet the crushing ones of his own. Too surprised, the doorwinged mech merely remained lax in the bigger mech’s hold as he plunged his glossa again and again into the warmth of the tactician’s mouth.
Something wet dripped lazily down Prowl’s thigh plating, alighting each sensor as it slowly descended downwards. The medic stopped long enough to nip the black and white’s lower lip before trailing a hand down the curved front of the Datsun, past a narrow waist before plunging quickly into a now open and exposed port. When his interface panel had withdrawn, the black and white had no clue, but he had little time to contemplate the development. Two thick fingers wormed their way in almost forcefully sinking into the syrupy heat of the tactician’s main valve.
Prowl could not stop the long moan that escaped him, nor move away from the digits that started a slow in and out motion into his long unused port. He could not help, but move with those thick digits as they reached deep within his walls and scraped along the sides. Giving in and riding the invaders as if he had been created for nothing else, the tactician’s helm fell back giving the medic easier access to a lengthy, open-mouthed kiss.
A loud, deep rumble from in front caught the attention of his hazy processor. Sometime while he had been distracted, things had changed for the saboteur as well. Ironhide’s codpiece was withdrawn and his friend had taken to his knees and was doing his best to swallow the other mech’s entire girth. Each bob of Jazz’s horned helm causing salivary fluids to streak down the sides of his stretched thin lip plates. Ironhide’s large, red servo cupped the back of the TIC’s head, guiding the motion and directing the steady pace in time with his thrusts. The saboteur did not seem to mind as he clutched at the thigh plating of the mech before him like a lifeline, moaning thickly around the length.
The fingers inside him gave a few more thrusts, squelching loudly with each push before withdrawing completely. Prowl keened quietly at the loss, mouth watering as he watched the saboteur continue to suck on the weapons master’s spike. Suddenly he found himself being guided down to his knee plates as well at the floor before the two mechs and then pushed down further still until his aft sat higher than his helm. Aft perked up and slick, swollen valve exposed to the air the tactician could not focus long enough to figure out why he should be worried. He was too distracted by the sight of Jazz deep-throating Ironhide.
The black and white did not have long to contemplate his change in position as something that wriggled like a snake entered his opening taking long swipes of his juices. Shaking, Prowl cried out as Ratchet thoroughly assaulted his valve, alternating between sucking on his tender outer lips and plunging his glossa back into its depths. The torment was too much to take and the tactician found his systems cycling up rapidly before they imploded and he cried out his release.
Behind him, the larger mech simply continued his assault, ignoring the doorwinged mech’s whimpers and wiggling hips. The other two mechs nearby were background noise even as the still standing one of the two thrust rapidly into his smaller partner’s mouth before moaning long and loud as inky transfluid poured from his spike and down the other mech’s throat into a newly opened chamber. The visored mech could not swallow fast enough as trickles of the viscous fluid joined saliva in running down his distended cheeks. The salty, metallic fluid was like the finest energon to the saboteur.
As the two mechs shifted, the tactician felt something curved and wide rest against his open port, increasing in pressure against his puckered valve. Instinctually, the mech shifted trying to escape the foreign intruder even as its head continued to push on, clearing the tight ring of his valve. A low cry escaped his dry lips as the large invader continued to push further in, stretching a too tight valve to accommodate its hefty girth. The pressure did not stop until the black and white felt the warmth of the medic’s plating resting snuggly between his parted thighs and his valve felt stuffed like a fat energon goodie.
The large, red and white mech grunted in satisfaction before pulling out slightly from the smaller mech impaled on his length. No time was given for accommodation before the mech was pushing back in. The tactician keened and was answered by another keen as his friend received a similar treatment, though on his back plates, legs splayed wide in the air as the big, red mech bore into him.
From beyond their area, other cries and moans drifted through the fog that was Prowl’s processors. Thinking was difficult and becoming even moreso as the broad mech behind him gripped his hip plates tightly and started thrusting smoothly in and out. The rippled ridges of the medic’s spike rubbed along the black and white’s inner walls with each moment, wringing various sounds from his vocalizer. Helplessly, he rocked against the other mech’s length, enjoying each impalement and each suctioned withdrawal. The wet slapping noises escaping where the two were joined only heightened his arousal.
Shamelessly, Prowl let his helm fall into the cradle of his arms, hot cheek pressed to cold deck plating as his valve was penetrated even more deeply from the shift in position. Each thrust threatened to push past his walls and into the chamber that lay deeply set at the end of his port canal. Ratchet’s loud groans encouraged his open moans and cries—each escaping from his parted, panting mouth. Knee plates scratched loudly against the metal floor as his body was rocked by the heavier-plated one behind him.
Across from him, Ironhide lifted the saboteur’s white thighs higher while simultaneously splitting them obscenely wide. With nothing to grasp, the Porsche could only feebly grip the flooring as the red van pushed his thick length inside a purple fluid-soaked hole. The amount of lubricant was more than either bot had ever experienced and seemed to add heat to their partners’ drenched lengths.
Leaving his kneeling position behind the tactician, the medic went down to all fours as well, his frame wrapping around the smaller mech’s chassis as he let instinct take over. The rough thrusting caused Prowl to cry out again and clench around the thick length being drilled into him. The added resistance was all that the white and red mech needed to go over the edge and he tilted his helm back as he gave a few more strong thrusts, fluid shooting from a small slit in his spade-tipped spike and filling the now open chamber of the mech below him. A tingling, sharp warmth spread from within the tactician and he keened loudly as pure, creamy transfluid filled his reproductive chamber crying out his second release. Both mechs writhed as they rode out their overloads before coming to an eventual stop in their motions.
After a breem, the medic above him shifted, slowly withdrawing his length. A ragged moan escaped the sedentary tactician and the black and white could do little more than lay there as his partner gave one last caress to his hipplate before moving away. Through bleary optics, Prowl could make out the other black and white sprawled on his backplates nearby—the saboteur’s partner having left as well.
The tactician wanted to focus his thoughts on what was happening, but could get no further than a deep, spark-fulfilling sigh of satisfaction as he let his sapphire blue optics dim and his body cycle down. He could think about things later. For now, Prowl was content to just be.
- 1
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Siren's Dance