Title: I Needed That
Fandom: TF Prime
Author: femme4jack
Pairing: Arcee/Optimus Prime
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sticky smut. Oral. Tactile intimacy (spark casing and Matrix). Brief, non-explicit mention of non-Allspark creation method (unspecified). Not sure I need to warn for this, but my default is that femmes are a frame type, not gender, and have both spike and valve, just like a mech. Unbeta-ed.
Summary: Arcee knows just what Optimus needs.
Notes: Synaltern's prompt "I needed that" for my "kick start my muses lj post"::Text:: Comm chatter
Certain ideas about the Matrix, and what is blasphemous to do to it are from Aleph Abyssal1's fabulous story The World's Translated Thus. The idea of glyphs and ideographs being transmitted to accompany verbal conversation is from White Aster's awesome WIP Warrior Goddess found on dreamwidth. Takes place sometime after the episode 14 "Shadowzone"

I Needed That

Arcee's optics followed as Optimus walked toward recharge bay the earth-based Autobots shared. His form was, as always, the picture of nobility, but there was a distinctive droop to his armor and an extra heaviness in his steps that after so many vorns in one another's company, could not be missed. Megatron was alive, dark energon somehow perverting even death itself. To make matters worse, it now appeared that Starscream, too, had infused his spark with the hideous substance. The Autobot refugees were outnumbered, outgunned, refined energon in short supply, and now they had to worry that somehow Megatron or his treacherous second-in-command would find a way to reanimate thousands of sparkless shells and overrun the fragile, frustrating organic rock which they protected.

Even if they did somehow manage to succeed in stopping whatever scheme the all-too-quiet Megatron was cooking up, every one of the refugees knew that at some point, there would be no more energon, or they would not have the capacity to mine or process it.

Scrap. These were not the kind of thoughts that would help Optimus right now. He carried so much weight on his spark. The Matrix of Leadership was a heavy burden. He wasn't allowed to simply be a mech. He certainly didn't need the weight of the borderline despair she had been fighting ever since Cliffjumper's signal had disappeared from Ratchet's monitor.

She might be cynical. She might be angry, and wonder if this planet was worth what it had (and would) cost them. But she believed in Optimus. Not just because he was Prime. If she were honest, she didn't give a scrap about the Matrix and all of that ancient mythological mumbo jumbo. She followed Optimus, not the Prime. She followed him because he was worthy of it, had proven it time and time again, and because her creator's final wish was for her to do so. And no matter what anyone back on Cybertron might have said, he wasn't some god in living metal. He was a mech - a mech who didn't allow himself to be one. A mech who had needs that were rarely met because he was too busy caring for the rest of them and keeping the ungrateful and uneasy defense forces of this backwater rock appeased.

Yes, a mech with needs, and she knew how to care for them.

"Gonna catch some recharge, Jack," she informed her charge before heading down the corridor, a quickly transmitted glyph and a dirty look to the rest of her cohort ensuring that she wouldn't be interrupted.

"About time," Ratchet grumbled, and she knew he wasn't complaining about her being undercharged.

Optimus sat on one of the three recharge berths located in the deepest part of their base, the creaking and groaning of his hydraulics and joints betraying just how overlong it had been since he had allowed himself the luxury of a full cycle of rest. Unsubspacing a cube, he pulled his pedes onto the berth and sat with his back against the wall, his ventilations approximating a sigh and he drank the energon his systems craved far too much of.

He may have recovered from his recent virus, but he did not feel himself despite Ratchet's clean bill of health. He felt heavy. And while the human Miko might glibly inform him, 'Duh, you are heavy,' it was not a heaviness of his frame that troubled him. There was a constant weight on this spark, as though the Matrix had long ago ceased to give him wisdom, courage and strength, but instead was a burden he could hardly lift. In his darkest moments, he wondered if the Matrix had turned away from him, rejected him. He had been entrusted with the collective wisdom of every Prime before him, and under him Cybertron had been brought to ruin. The vast majority of his people were extinguished or in exile, the planet itself a dead husk, and now Megatron had within his means the power to devastate yet another world that had been placed under his care. These were not new thoughts to Optimus, but they were heavier now, more consuming, and far less easy to dismiss. It was as though the very power that had been able keep his lost brother's spark from guttering was draining his own spark of strength, of the courage and hope his cohort needed from him. And rather than rising to the task as a Prime should, he wanted to rip out the Matrix and be done with it.

"What are you processing," a quiet voice said at the same time as she transmitted a glyph offering comfort and company, with the subharmonic making it very clear exactly what kind of comfort and company she was intending.

"Thoughts unbecoming of a Prime, Arcee" he quietly admitted, while silently transmitting unworthy and undeserving.

The response he received in turn was a transmitted image of those glyphs meeting a violent end at the hands of her own laser cannon as she climbed easily onto his chassis, taking his finished cube and placing it on the table next to the berth. "Well why don't you let me help you forget those thoughts and replace them with other thoughts unbecoming of a Prime, hmm?" she offered slyly, putting her hands against his chest for a very unsubtle and suggestive magburst.

His spark surged, a charge of desire replacing the darkness of his thoughts. As she was so fond of reminding him, he might be Prime, but he was all mech, and with a rumbling groan, his panel slid open to reveal his half pressurized spike emerging from its housing swiftly to show that particular weakness.

"Arcee," his voice took on a deeper, more dangerous timbre, warning her that in his current state, very little of his precious control remained.

"Shut up and lay back and enjoy," she ordered in response, "and spread your legs."

He raised an optic ridge at her tone, but followed her instructions, spreading his legs and bending them at the knee with more creaks and groans of joints and hydraulics lacking proper lubrication from overuse. When he tried to reach out to touch her, to pull her small and deadly frame to himself, she grasped his much larger wrists and guided his hands behind his helm so he could watch. He did so, mesmerized as she smirked and knelt between his thighs, shuddering as her thin fingers capturing his spike and pumped it several times to complete its pressurization. His sensors lit up in anticipation as her hands moved to splay across his abdomen, teasing the cabling of his relatively slender waist. With her optics glued to his, she licked his spike from its base to tip, swirling around and probing into the circular opening to taste his lubricants.

The sheer visual stimulation was almost enough to send his exhausted frame and spark into overload. "Arcee," he moaned again as she took his thick spike into her mouth. It was too long for her swallow entirely. The end bumped against the back of her throat, and she massaged it with her glossa and intake, one hand holding down his waist, the other enveloping the base of his spike and squeezing the sensors there. Pleasure input rolled from his spike in waves throughout his frame, settling in his spark as she began to slowly move on him, her hand following her mouth to squeeze his nodes.

He knew he would not last. The charge was now racing through his frame, ghostly blue light dancing around her mouth as her optics continued to smirk at him. He groaned. He wanted to last, to bring pleasure to her as well. To slow the growth of the charge, he focussed on his memories of this femme who was so devastatingly beautiful and precious to him. There were so few of her lithe, unique frametype left. Rare even before the war, Megatron had once held nothing but contempt for femmes with their mysterious origins, strange culture and separate hierarchy. Like the Seekers, they could kindle true without the Allspark, but also like Seekers, only with one another. Femmes needed more than a trine. Bonded collectives of five or more were required to create a new femme. Unlike Seekers, they were not a warbuilds, and Megatron considered their need for the collective and their size to be weaknesses, unbefitting true Cybertronians.

Dismissing their value was one of Megatron's greatest early mistakes, which the Decepticons paid dearly for. When he had realized the advantage the small, swift processing troubleshooter-turned-saboteurs had over the lumbering, large, warbuilds the warlord favored, he had targeted them relentlessly. Arcee had been the last femme their command collective had created before they were destroyed, and their elder, Elita-1's, final order to her had been to flee and seek out Elita's mech consort, Optimus Prime, and serve under him. It was rare for a femme to consent to take a mech lover, but Elita-1 had sealed her alliance with Optimus by doing just that, and had entrusted her final creation to him. While Optimus could only hope that other femme collectives existed somewhere in the universe, the only other femme he knew of was one who had betrayed her own collective early in the war and turned against her build, one who now was somewhere on Earth. One whom he would rip apart with his bare hands if he could for what she had nearly done to this talented and deadly member of his cohort.

::Quit processing and let go!:: she commed him, aware that his thoughts, even amidst the growing pleasure, had turned back to brooding.

"Arcee, I wish to last, to bring you pleasure as well," he admitted as her mouth stilled on him, allowing the charge to briefly settle before she built it again.

With a scowl, she pulled herself off of his spike, shaking her head at him, bemused when he groaned in protest.

"I don't need you to take care of me," she said. "This is for you. You need it. And don't give me the slag about the Matrix demanding that you take care of the rest of us first."

His protest was cut off by the sound of her own interface panel opening, and his olfactory sensors registered the scent of rich lubricants as she climbed to straddle him. Her own spike emerged from its housing and she rubbed its smaller length against his own to pressurize it, wrapping her hands around them and angling her hips to allow both of their valves to rub together, their slick fluids mingling and running down his thighs. Only a static-laden choke managed to emerge from his vocalizer.

"Let me show you what I think of the Matrix demanding you always having to take care of all of us," she said, her voice now thick with her own desire. "Open up," she demanded.

He knew what was coming, what would have been unthinkable on Cybertron. A sacrilege. And her own way of showing him that to her, he was a mech first and foremost, not the living embodiment of a god. It brought a lightness to his spark that had been absent for too long. His chuckle turned into a moan as she sat up on her knees began to impale herself on his length at the same speed as his parting chest plates. She was so tight. So much tighter than even a small mech, but still took him, enveloping him, caressing him with the throbbing walls of her valve, lighting every sensor with her unquenchable heat. He felt as though his circuits would melt as the charge began to fiercely build again, ripping through his extremities and focussing its fury on his spark.

He felt the Matrix pulse with its own hunger for her, its pleasure a part of, yet alien from his own, desiring what it knew from experience she was about to give. The priests of the long-ago destroyed temple would have executed her for what she dared to do. The long extinguished council would have stripped the Matrix from him for daring to allow it. None of it mattered now. Just as she wished, he was simply a mech, hedonistically wanting everything she could give. Her valve could only take in half of his length, but it did not matter. She began to move on him, her impossible tightness sending waves of pleasure close to pain from spike to his entire neural net. Her mouth was perfectly placed as she leaned down over him and began to caress the matrix with her lips and glossa; the ancient Primes suddenly came to life within him, not to offer their remembered wisdom, but instead their remembered pleasure, coursing through his frame as they, too, became merely mechs. One of her hands reached up and caressed his spark casing, yet another blasphemy from anyone other than the Prime's council-dictated sparkmate.

But here, in this all too brief moment, he was not the Prime. He was Orion. Here there was no longer any council with their stuffy ways to tell him what it did and did not mean to be a Prime. There was only this incomparably beautiful and blasphemous femme who wanted nothing more than for him to be a mech. The weight of the Matrix under her lips became something wholly different as his overload, along with that of every Prime before him, crashed through his systems in waves of welcome release. His final thought before plummeting into deep recharge was to note the pleasure of hearing her beautiful keens echoing his own.

Later, much later, Ratchet walked in to check on the recharging pair. His normally acerbic expression was replaced with a soft smile as he saw Arcee splayed out on their leader, resting literally within his still open chestplates, her valve still gently massaging his spike in an autonomic response. He scanned her and felt her stir in response to her recharge timer, set to wake her to take Jack home.

::Don't you dare move a piston,:: he commed her silently. ::I'll take Jack home tonight.::

::Thought you didn't like being a sparking sitter,:: she responded, accompanied with a glyph expressing deep gratitude.

::I don't. But he needed that, and so did you. Doctor's orders,:: he replied, sending the same glyph in return.