[IDW] A Perfect Storm 08/16
May. 27th, 2019 06:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: A Perfect Storm
Universe: TF G1/IDW
Characters: Blurr, Jazz, Bluestreak, Ricochet, Prowl, Rodimus, Drift, Ratchet
Pairings: Blurr/Jazz, Blurr/Ricochet, Blurr/Ricochet/Jazz, Ricochet/Jazz, Bluestreak/Jazz, Drift/Ratchet,
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Twincest, Mechpreg, Canon Typical Violence
Description: Blurr happens to enjoy life on post-war Cybertron, but when a serial murderer starts targeting former Wreckers, Blurr ends up saddled with a bodyguard who rubs him in all the wrong ways. Or right ways, if you were to ask Ricochet. Let the battle begin.
Commission for MamaBlurr.
Chapter Eight
Blurr asked to see Ricochet in private.
No one batted an optic or tried to deny him. Which was a stark contrast to the reception Jazz received whenever he tried to get a few minutes with Ricochet. Prowl’s orders apparently.
Sometimes, Prowl could be an aft.
Blurr waited for them to bring Ricochet in. He sat in a hard chair with too high of a back, on one side of a metal table with magnetic strips to attach the magna-cuffs. The room was sterile and empty, without so much as a piece of art on the wall or a mirror, though the vid-recorders in each of the corners were proof nothing went unseen.
They would be able to speak in private, true, but it was recorded and would probably be reviewed later. No matter. Blurr had no intention to explain the partial truth of why he was here. He had his part in the plan. That was all he had to do.
Blurr twitched. He rapped his fingers on the table. He stared at the doorway, willing it to open, anxiety twisting into a knot inside his tank.
He’d decided to keep the sparkling, no matter what Ricochet wanted. He wasn’t even sure he cared what Ricochet wanted. He needed to find out.
He needed to know if Ricochet was worthy of trust first.
The door opened. Ricochet shuffled inside, cuffed at the wrist and ankle, escorted by one of the Enforcers.
“Sit,” the Enforcer demanded in a tone lacking all personality.
Ricochet’s visor brightened when he saw Blurr. He sat, resting his hands on the table so his cuffs could be magnetized to the strip. Blurr assumed there was a strip beneath the table for his feet as well.
“You’re so polite and charming,” Ricochet drawled with a tilted look at his escort. “Can I get ya transferred to my block maybe? I could use more personality around there.”
The Enforcer glared. “Behave,” he said without so much as a look at Blurr. “You’re being monitored.” He pointed to the vid-recorders. “If we think for a moment you’re going to turn violent, we will respond with extreme prejudice.”
Ricochet spread his hands, palms up, clanking the magna-cuffs. “I’m all tied up, officer. Not much I can do.” He grinned, showing his denta.
Blurr cycled a ventilation. This was the mech he’d tied himself to. Ricochet couldn’t resist poking authority. That had to be the Decepticon in him.
Then again, Jazz wasn’t much better.
The Enforcer’s engine growled before he finally acknowledged Blurr. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thanks,” Blurr said. “But I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
The guard left. He locked the door behind him, the quiet click of it filling the empty space. Blurr watched his exit, drumming the fingers of one hand on the table. Suddenly, he couldn’t think of any words.
“So,” Ricochet said, popping the word with far more exuberance than someone in his position had right to hold. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting? Please tell me it’s a conjugal visit. My hand’s getting tired.”
Blurr snorted and shifted his attention back to Ricochet. Now that he was paying attention, he could see the hints of anxiety in Ricochet’s frame, the light flutter of his armor, the paler shade of his visor. Autobots tended to dislike former Decepticons. Especially former Decepticons who had been accused of committing atrocities against Autobots.
Jazz had been right to want to free his brother.
“Is it true?” Blurr asked, because he was too tired and stressed to think about having tact. Besides, he figured Ricochet would prefer bluntness.
Ricochet snorted a laugh. “That’s all you wanted to ask? Really?” He leaned back as far as the manacles would allow him and gestured with his fingers. “No, it’s not fragging true. I ain’t killed no one in years. And I certainly ain’t murdered no Autobot Wreckers.”
His accent had thickened. It took Blurr a moment or two to pick out what Ricochet meant. Anger spiked from him in waves, as though there was something about this room which made it harder for him to conceal his usually walled off emotions.
He couldn’t lie in here, Blurr thought. At least, not with his field. Not without having to concentrate really, really hard.
Good to know.
“Why would someone try to frame you?” Blurr asked.
“Frag if I know.” Ricochet huffed, and his engine revved noisily. “I’m an easy target? I was here? They wanted to get Prowl and his cronies off their tail? Do I look like a criminal mastermind to you?”
Blurr arched an orbital ridge.
“Never mind. Don’t answer that.” Ricochet sank down in his seat, looking for all the universe as though he were pouting. “It don’t matter. It fragging wasn’t me, which if anyone around here had two chips to rub together, they’d have put that together by now.” He raised his voice and tilted his head back, glaring at the ceiling.
Silence.
“Anyway.” Ricochet shifted back to Blurr and knocked the table with his knuckles. “Why do you care if I’m innocent or not? It’s got nothing to do with you.”
Blurr pressed his lips together. Now probably would be a good time to bring up the sparkling. It was a good enough reason as any and didn’t involve anything as messy as feelings. Not that Blurr had any feelings for Ricochet.
The words were on the tip of his glossa, but just then, the power flickered. In the distance, Blurr heard a low, echoing whump like an explosion or a building collapse. That couldn’t be a coincidence.
Jazz hadn’t told him the particulars of the plan, but Blurr wasn’t stupid. He’d been a Wrecker. He didn’t need a play-by-play to read the situation.
He pretended to be surprised.
Ricochet, however, looked up, and his mouth spread open in a grin. “Well, sounds like there might be a bit of a disturbance outside.”
“Sounds like,” Blurr agreed.
Ricochet tipped his head. “Doesn’t get you out of answering my question though.”
The door clicked open, one of the guards slipping inside, his field surging outward with a harried edge. He strode straight toward Ricochet and gave a tug to the magna-cuffs, perhaps checking that they were secure.
“What’s going on?” Blurr asked.
“Nothing to concern yourself about, sir,” the guard replied in a sharp tone. “Stay here, and you’ll be safe. You may continue to talk.” He pointed at Ricochet firmly. “Behave.”
Ricochet chuckled. “I am on my best behavior, obviously. I don’t know why you’d think I’d be otherwise.” He beamed a disingenuous smile.
He was treated to another warning glare before the guard slipped back out. The lights flickered again, and Blurr swore he could hear shouting and mechs running. Ah, chaos. Definitely sounded like Jazz was to blame.
Ricochet gave a token tug to the manacles, rattling them. “If I wanted to escape, these wouldn’t stop me.” He flashed his visor in a wink. “So let me guess.” He pointed upward with his thumbs. “My brother?”
Blurr frowned and feigned confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His gaze flickered to the vid-recorders. The last thing he needed was for anyone to get a sniff he was involved in the jailbreak.
Ricochet laughed. “Primus, you’re adorable. I can’t wait to get you to a berth again.” His glossa swept over his lips, the darkness in his visor turning hot and hunger.
Blurr’s insides twisted with want.
The door opened again, actually startling Blurr because he hadn’t expected it to be so soon after the last. The guard who slipped inside looked much different than the other before him, though he was still branded an Enforcer and had the telltale marks on his shoulders.
“What’s going on?” Blurr asked, pushing to rise and only getting halfway out of his chair when the guard held up a hand to him.
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” he replied, gruff and dismissive. He pulled out some kind of device and waved it over the magnacuffs, freeing Ricochet from his attachment to the table. “Come on. Time to go back to your cell.”
Ricochet didn’t move. “But I’m still having a conversation.” He grinned and tossed a sly wink at Blurr. “My partner here owes me that conjugal visit.”
“I do not,” Blurr hissed. “And we’re not partners.”
The Enforcer wrapped his fingers around Ricochet’s nearest upper arm and tugged him off the chair and out from behind the table. “You’re done.”
Blurr fully stood, planting his hands on the table. “I was promised at least fifteen minutes.”
“We’re on a full security shutdown. That privilege has been revoked. Come back later.” He yanked rudely on Ricochet, dragging him toward the door.
Blurr made a point to memorize his badge number. He would have words. That kind of rough treatment was not necessary.
“It’s really too bad,” Ricochet let himself be dragged, though he tossed a smirk back at Blurr. “Maybe next time we’ll get that frag, eh? I know you’ve been missing my spike.”
Blurr growled and dropped back down his chair. “Frag you.”
Ricochet chuckled. “All in due time.”
The guard sighed a rumbling ventilation. “Someone will come escort you out, sir,” he said, his tone tight and angry. “Let’s go.”
Ricochet clucked his glossa and gave Blurr a little wave before he was pulled out the door. It locked behind them, trapping Blurr in the room. Distantly, alarms shrieked and mechs shouted, but the sirens for a city-wide lockdown hadn’t gone off, which meant it was a localized disturbance.
Blurr sighed and leaned back in his chair, offlining his optics. He didn’t know how long he had to wait, but he hoped it was soon. He’d left Drift in the waiting room -- on Drift’s insistence, not Blurr’s. He hadn’t wanted Blurr to be alone since the “revelation” had left him visibly imbalanced.
There was a killer out there, after all, and Drift hadn’t needed any convincing to know it wasn’t Ricochet. He’d somewhat made himself Blurr’s bodyguard in Ricochet’s absence. Like Jazz, Blurr hadn’t been able to convince Drift otherwise, not even when Ratchet pointed out that Drift had been a Wrecker, too.
“That’s like prey protecting prey,” he’d said with a snort. “Idiots.”
Blurr started to doze by the time the door opened again, and he wasn’t sure if it was because so much time had passed, or because the sparkling was wreaking merry havoc on his energy levels. Again. Either way, he startled awake when the first guard from before came into the room, his gaze landing on Blurr immediately.
“Where is the prisoner?” he demanded, hand falling to the holstered weapon at his side.
Blurr cycled his optics. “A guard came and got him.” He rubbed his face and rose from the chair. He was ready to go home and await news from Jazz. “Are you here to escort me out?”
“Who was it?” the guard demanded, searching through the room as though Ricochet had escaped through a hidden panel.
Blurr frowned. “It’s not my job to keep track of your prisoners. Can I leave now?”
The Enforcer gave a frustrated huff after his futile search produced nothing. The room was small and monitored. There was nowhere Blurr could have stashed Ricochet.
“Let’s go.”
Blurr snorted. “Gladly.”
~
The place was a slaghole, but Ricochet had slept in worse. He’d made more terrible places his home. He’d holed up in deeper slagpits during the war. Whatever it took to survive.
At least there was more than one room. At least he had a berth and a vidscreen and an energon dispenser. Sure he was about three levels below the surface of Cybertron, and it was dank and dark and eerily quiet with some weird drip he couldn't find no matter how hard he looked. But it was safe and hidden, and only Jazz could find him here.
No one skulked better than a streetrat, that’s for sure. And while Ricochet had more experience living on the streets than his brother, they’d both had their down and outs.
“I’ll be back,” Jazz had promised, and Ricochet had grabbed him and all but eaten his mouth from desperation.
Days with only his hand weren’t pleasant. Especially when guards kept shouting at him to stop being so obscene. Hah. As if they didn’t go home and self-service themselves.
Ricochet was bored. Bored and horny and anxious with worry, not that he’d admit the latter aloud. What if Prowl realized Jazz was to blame? What if he assumed it and called for Jazz’s arrest? How in the frag would Ricochet break Jazz out of jail if he was a fugitive himself?
He gnawed on his talontips, like he told himself he wouldn’t do anymore, and he paced, occasionally pausing to glare at the door. He had no comm signals down here. It was good, because it meant he couldn’t be tracked, but it was bad, because that meant Jazz couldn’t let him know what was going on.
Frag it.
He counted down the minutes. He waited, on bolts and brackets, and when he heard someone fiddling with the door panel, he oscillated between delight that his brother had come back, and suspicion that it was someone else.
He prepared the blaster Jazz had given him just in case.
It flung open with a rattle, a clunk, and a muttered curse in a voice Ricochet was intimately familiar with. He relaxed, stowing his pistol, as Jazz came into view, shaking his hand and sticking a finger into his mouth.
“Well, no one’s gonna get the drop on ya with that damn door,” he muttered.
“Took you long enough,” Ricochet growled as he hooked his hand in Jazz’s collar fairing and yanked his twin into a kiss, tasting spilled energon on his brother’s lip.
Jazz made a muffled sound and melted into the kiss, his mouth opening as he grabbed at Ricochet’s sides, leaning in. His field was a frazzled mess compared to the clinical calm it had been earlier, and Ricochet could taste the frenzied desperation in him.
He broke off the kiss with a bite to Jazz’s lower lip, and felt his twin shiver in response. “Berthroom,” Ricochet growled. “Now.”
Jazz’s visor flickered. His fingers curved against Ricochet’s armor. “Okay,” he said, in that wonderfully obedient tone of his.
Ricochet grinned, molten heat pooling in his belly and further southward, his spike thickening within its sheath.
“Good boy.” He nuzzled his brother, lips running hot and wet over Jazz’s audial. “It’s all your fault, you know. Took too long to get me out, I couldn’t even jerk off without someone yelling at me.” He looked past Jazz, caught sight of Blurr loitering in the doorway, expression unreadable, and smirked. “Ya better fix it.”
Jazz’s fingers dug into his seams, pressing hard against a cable. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I can do that.”
“So I should just go then?” Blurr demanded with an arched orbital ridge, his arms crossing over his chest.
He looked just as delectable as he had across the table in the interview room. Ricochet had wanted to bend him over that table. He wanted it twice as much now. Especially with that edge of jealousy to his tone.
“Close the door. I’m a fugitive after all,” Ricochet drawled, and slid an arm around his brother’s waist, hand skating down to cup Jazz’s aft. “And ya got two choices here, Zippy. Ya can sit around and wait here in the front room, cause I’m fragging someone right now whether you're here or not, or you can have the ride of your life and join us.”
A low keen of want bubbled in Jazz’s intake. He turned his head into Ricochet’s intake and lips and denta scraped over Ricochet’s cables. “Please,” Jazz murmured.
Ricochet grinned and patted Jazz on the aft. “Bro certainly wants it. So it’s up to you.”
Blurr’s gaze darted from him to Jazz and back again. “Seriously?”
“Do I look like I’m jokin’?” Ricochet turned his attention to Jazz, biting on the side of his neck, hard enough to leave a mark. Jazz shuddered and moaned, pressing harder against him, as if trying to climb into his armor.
Ricochet chuckled. “Don’t worry, bro. I’ll frag ya stupid.”
“Promise?”
“With all my spike.” Ricochet promised and Jazz’s field flooded over his, thick with the prickling of his volcanic need. Poor thing. He must not have managed to convince Bluestreak in Ricochet’s absence.
Ricochet pulled Jazz into another kiss before he spun Jazz toward the berthroom and gave him a little push. He turned to follow and tossed a look over his shoulder.
“Make yourself at home,” he said with a broad gesture. “Or feel free to join us. Up to you.”
He went into the berthroom without waiting for Blurr to reply, the breadth of Jazz’s need like a pull he couldn’t ignore. Ricochet could sympathize. He had a fairly high interface drive as it was, but he wasn’t like Jazz. He wasn’t - for lack of a better word - needy. Jazz needed someone to stabilize him, and there were many names Ricochet had in the back of his mind of mechs who’d taken advantage of that during the war.
A thought for another time, however.
Jazz flopped on the berth ahead of Ricochet, and he was crawling across it, his aft presenting a delicious target. Ricochet growled and tackled him, the ancient berth giving a warning creak as he pinned Jazz to the berth, grinding hard against his aft. Ricochet latched on the back of Jazz’s neck, denta gnawing at his cables, and Jazz went from taut to limp, his field exploding in a magnified burst of lust.
That complete surrender would never be anything but delicious. Ricochet growled and bit at his neck again, snaking a hand around to probe at Jazz’s array, finding his panels already open, and two fingers sinking into Jazz’s valve with ease. He was dripping, his calipers cycling tight around Ricochet’s fingers.
“Oh, someone missed me,” Ricochet purred against his neck. He licked at the bitemarks and Jazz shivered, moaning as he pushed back at him.
He plunged his fingers deeper, curving them to hook against the bundle of sensors right behind Jazz’s rim. His brother gasped and arched against him, valve spiraling tight and hungry.
“Someone missed me a lot.” Ricochet ground against his aft, enjoying the scrub of it before he pulled back, and Jazz whined his disappointment.
Ricochet patted him on the side. “Turn over, bro. I wanna see how desperate you are.” He slid his knees back a little, making room for Jazz to obey.
And obey he did. Jazz scrambled over onto his back, thighs splaying wide, spike bobbing at the apex of them and his valve bare and rippling. His pleats were swollen, damp with lubricant, and his biolights pulsed in bright intervals. He threw his hands over his head, palms open, and his lips were parted, his glossa sweeping over them.
Ricochet settled between his knees and slid three fingers into his twin, watching as Jazz arched and moaned, his thighs quivering, his armor plates fluttering. More lubricant spilled out, and a bead of pre-come slithered from the tip of his spike. Ricochet palmed his own array with his other hand, his spike extending into his fingers, pressurizing at a rapid pace.
“Hard and fast?” he asked as he thumbed Jazz’s anterior node, first with a hard pressure, then a soft circle. Jazz’s hips arched up and a low growl resonated from his engine.
Jazz fisted the berth covers above his head. “Anyway you’ll give it.” He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, biting down hard.
Primus, he was gorgeous. Ricochet wanted to eat him up.
His backplates prickled. On the edge of his field, he tasted bits of arousal, jealousy, curiosity. It radiated against his back.
Ricochet curved his fingers again, playing with Jazz’s sensors, but he glanced over his shoulder. Blurr stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed, expression back to unreadable. Save for the hunger. It made his optics glow blue and bright.
“I don’t mindya just watchin’,” Ricochet said as he thumbed Jazz’s node again, making his brother shudder. “But you look more the participatin’ type.”
Blurr’s intake bobbed. His glossa swept across his lips. “Looks like I’d just get in the way.”
“There’s always room for more.” Ricochet chuckled and tilted his head, gesturing for Blurr to join them. “Get over here.”
“Yeah,” Jazz rasped, his tone thick with need and completely wrecked. “Been a while for you ‘n me, right, Blurr? Miss my favorite Racer.”
Blurr snorted and pushed off the doorway, coming further into the room. “Not my fault you’ve been MIA.” He stepped around the berth, into view of Jazz at least, and his optics went even brighter, his field drenching them both in lust.
Ricochet stroked his brother’s anterior nub again, and Jazz shivered, his visor flashing hot-white.
“Come here,” Jazz said. “Wanna frag you.”
Primus. Ricochet swallowed a groan, his processor supplying an image of his brother’s spike vanishing into Blurr’s valve, and Blurr bobbing up and down in front of him, that gorgeous aft of his within grabbing range.
Blurr slanted a gaze at Ricochet. “Feels like I should be asking permission.”
“You’ve already got it, Speedy.” Ricochet withdrew his fingers, much to Jazz’s displeasure, and gave his brother a pat on the valve. “Climb on. He’s a good ride. I promise.”
“I already knew that.” Blurr gave him a sour look -- such a pouty thing, but that was what happened with spoiled mechs used to attention. But he put a knee on the berth, and he leaned down and kissed Jazz, much kinder than Ricochet had been.
Pfft. That was why the two of them would never be anything more than frag buddies. Blurr had no idea what Jazz really needed. Though the two of them together were hot as frag.
Ricochet licked his lips and sat back, content to watch as Blurr’s hand crept up Jazz’s abdomen and snuck under his bumper, teasing the sensitive components hidden behind it. Jazz shuddered and grabbed the back of Blurr’s head to deepen the kiss.
They were a pretty, pretty sight.
Jazz’s spike gave a jerk, and more pre-fluid beaded at the tip. Ricochet decided to be gracious and wrapped a hand around it, giving him a slow, squeezing stroke. Jazz hissed into the kiss, his backstrut arching, and he pulled back with a gasp.
“Please tell me I get ta frag ya,” Jazz said as he bucked up into Ricochet’s hand.
Blurr chuckled. “Only because I like the sound of you begging.” He swung a knee over and straddled Jazz’s hips, Ricochet’s fist bumping along the inside of his thighs.
His damp thighs.
Ricochet’s orbital ridges rose. He tilted his head, getting a peek. Sure enough, Blurr’s panels were already open, his spike extended and his valve bared and dripping. Had the thought of being a part of this triad excited him? How long had he stood there watching, getting wetter or wetter?
Kinky little fragger, wasn’t he?
Blurr bent over to kiss Jazz again, and his aft rose, giving Ricochet a long look at the damp of his valve, the flickering biolights, the swollen rise of his anterior node. Ricochet groaned and slid his fingers over Blurr's slick, curving two into Blurr's valve, producing a shudder from the Racer. He slid his other hand back into Jazz's valve, gathered up lubricant, and slicked it over Jazz's spike.
The two of them deepened their kiss, frames moving together, dances of charge already curling out from beneath their armor. Jazz had his hands hooked in Blurr's armor, and Blurr braced himself on the berth, his thighs trembling.
Ricochet wanted to eat them both.
He held Jazz's spike and rested his lubricant damp hand on Blurr's hip. "Come on, Zippy. Sink down. Take my brother in that pretty valve of yers."
Blurr groaned and canted his hips, knees spreading so he could roll down.
"Slowly now. No need to rush," Ricochet purred, his insides exploding with blistering need, his spike throbbing and jerking, beads of pre-fluid sliding from the tip. "Don't move, bro. Just wait for it."
He relished the way Jazz froze, though his frame trembled from the force of his restraint. His spike throbbed in Ricochet's grip, spilling more pre-come, but he didn't thrust. He held himself, waiting.
Ricochet guided Blurr down and aimed Jazz at his valve, watching him slowly, so slowly, sink into Blurr. They both moaned, frames tensing, Blurr curving forward to kiss Jazz again, sloppy and wet, until Jazz was fully seated and lubricant beaded up around him.
Ricochet groaned at the sight and palmed Blurr's aft, giving it a squeeze. He rose up on his knees, rutting against Blurr's aft, his spikehead grinding over the point where Jazz and Blurr had joined.
"It's like a fantasy come ta life," he gasped, his spike leaving wet smears on the back of Blurr's thighs.
"Can I move?" Jazz asked.
"Just a little," Ricochet said, and held on Blurr's hips, watching as Jazz planted his feet in the berth and started to rock, only half withdrawing from Blurr before he plunged it again, causing a wave of electric fire to dance over Blurr's armor.
Ricochet's hands slid down, his thumbs swiping inward, running over the panel concealing Blurr's port. "What do ya say, Zippy? Ever been fragged in the aft?"
Blurr glanced over his shoulder, over the rise of his kibble. "Of course I have."
Shame. Ricochet would have liked to be the one to break him in. There's nothing quite like the look on a mech's face, the first time he overloaded from port stimulation.
Ricochet smirked at him and pressed in with his thumbs pointedly. "Gonna let me in then?" he asked and swept one hand downward, finger tracing Blurr's rim where it stretched around Jazz's spike, still slowly pumping into him. "Or should we share this? I'm good either way."
"No sharing yet," Blurr said. "I don't have the patience for it." His port panel spiraled open invitingly.
Ricochet's engine purred. He rubbed over the smaller opening with the pad of one thumb, while he slicked his other fingers in Jazz's valve, making his brother arch and sigh. He gave Jazz a light tap on the thigh.
"Be still," he ordered, and brought his lubricant wet thumb to Blurr's port, spreading the slick around before he nudged it inside.
Blurr groaned, backstrut curving, aft pushing back toward Ricochet's digit. His frame accepted Ricochet's thumb easily, and the forefinger he added after. Oh, yes. He had experience in this.
Good.
Ricochet's insides rumbled with need. He hastily spread his own pre-fluid over his spike and rose up on his knees, lining up against Blurr's port. He rubbed the head of his spike against it, teasing Blurr with penetration.
"Slow?" he asked, though he shook from restraint. It'd been a long, lonely incarceration.
"No." Blurr pushed back against him again, a full-frame shudder dancing over his armor. "Now."
Ricochet groaned through his denta and grabbed Blurr's hips, his spikehead pressing firmly against Blurr's lubricant-slick port. Blurr shivered in his grasp, and rocked back, until he popped inside with a moan from both of them. His processor spun at the delicious squeeze, and he had to cycle a steadying ventilation before he could continue, sliding deep into Blurr until he bottomed out, and his spike was swallowed by clenching heat.
His cooling fans cluttered to life, filling the room with noise. Ricochet curved forward, tightening his grip on Blurr's hips. Blurr had sank down, until he was almost entirely laid out on Jazz, his field swirling with arousal and need. Jazz was scorching heat, trembling so hard he rattled, his spike still buried deep in Blurr.
Ricochet was on top. Where he was supposed to be. He set the pace, and his partners could do nothing but hold on for the ride.
He pulled back and thrust in, hard enough to rock Blurr atop Jazz's frame. The both of them groaned, and Jazz bucked up, thrusting in counterpoint to Ricochet. Blurr keened, forehead dipping to land on Jazz's shoulder, his fingers curling into the berthcovers.
"You okay, Speedy?" Ricochet asked as he picked up the pace, his cables tensing and sensornet exploding with pleasure.
"Fine!" Blurr gritted out and rolled his hips, down onto Jazz and back onto Ricochet, rocking back and forth between them. Peeks of his spike grinding down against Jazz's abdomen left streaks of pre-fluid in his wake. "Don't stop."
Primus, could he get any more perfect?
Ricochet smirked.
The rest was ecstasy. He stopped holding back. He plunged into Blurr, deep, driving thrusts that forced him down against Jazz, squeezing out moans and whines from both of them. Jazz's field was a swirl of clawing hunger, and he fell into the pleasure with abandon. Blurr was more restrained, but he melted into Ricochet's thrusts, giving himself over the pleasure like a mech born into it.
His port squeezed taut, not quite the spiraling tightness of a valve, but equally satisfying. He was hot inside, molten, and Ricochet plunged into him, again and again, his own vents coming in sharp bursts, his field filling the room with satisfaction and pleasure.
Jazz overloaded first, buried beneath their frames. Ricochet knew the cadence of his brother's pleasure, knew the exact timbre of his engine, and the pitch it reached when he crested the edge. He bucked up, held Blurr down and overloaded hard, backstrut arching so much he nearly bucked off Blurr. Relief flooded Jazz's field, and the muzzy sense of overload satisfaction.
Ricochet picked up the pace, slamming harder and harder into Blurr, shoving him down to rut his spike against Jazz's belly. Jazz pawed at him with nerveless fingers, sliding into seams and teasing cables, mouthing over Blurr's intake.
Ricochet grinned and curved over Blurr, nearly crushing Jazz under their combined weight, not that his twin would protest at all. If anything, Jazz's field opened up to them more, savoring the press of their frames.
Ricochet snaked a hand beneath Blurr, holding him around the waist in place for a nice, deep grind. He sought out the back of Blurr's neck with lips and denta, catching Jazz's gaze over the rise of Blurr's shoulder. He rolled his hips, thrusting to the hilt every time, and licked and bit at Blurr's neck, all the while holding his brother's gaze.
Mine, Ricochet purred through his field, in a way he knew his twin could read. Both of you. Mine.
Jazz jerked his head in a nod, and his visor dimmed into that cool blue of satisfaction, where he went into his head, to the place that made him sweet and compliant. He tipped his head back, bared his intake, and Ricochet would have bit him, if he could.
That was all right. Blurr was equally delicious, and his neck was for the taking. So Ricochet latched on with his denta, biting down, not deep enough to draw energon, but enough to leave a mark. To restore the ones which had healed since he'd been imprisoned.
Blurr shuddered beneath him. His port rippled around Ricochet, and he dipped his head, as if offering his neck to Ricochet, submitting to him.
Delicious.
Ricochet snapped his hips, burying to the hilt, and bit down at the same time. Blurr keened and shuddered beneath Ricochet, his port clenching down in a telltale rhythm. He overloaded, sparks dancing over his frame, biting against Ricochet's armor. He went limp and pliant, dragging air through his vents in sharp gulps.
It only took a handful of thrusts for Ricochet to follow him over, pulling Blurr hard against him as he spilled deep into Blurr's ports, a week's worth of pent up need spurting out of him. His vision filled with static as the overload sizzled through his lines and his sensory net, his cables tensing and easing all at once.
He chuckled hoarsely against the back of Blurr's neck, glossa lapping at the bite mark he'd left. It seeped sluggishly, but his nanites should get to it soon enough. Ricochet purred his approval, circling his hips as his spike softened in Blurr's aft.
He could easily go for another round.
"Off," Blurr muttered as he shifted beneath Ricochet. "Can't ventilate."
"Racers are so delicate," Ricochet said with a soft laugh. He landed another bite on the back of Blurr's neck before he pushed off and back, sliding out of Blurr with a wet pop.
He sat back on his heels, admiring the slow trickle of transfluid from Blurr's port. He rubbed his thumb over it and the swollen rim, and Blurr shivered, his port twitching against Ricochet's digit. Ricochet grinned, sweeping some of the transfluid up and coating his finger with it before he pushed it into Blurr's aft, giving it a little crook.
Blurr groaned and clenched down on him. "Don't you ever get tired?"
Jazz chuckled a little raspily. "You got no room to talk, Blurr."
"You may have a point." Blurr pushed himself up to hands and knees, Jazz slipping free of his valve and more fluids seeping free. His aft shifted back toward Ricochet, however. "Especially lately."
"Do I get to take credit for that?" Ricochet asked as he slid another finger into Blurr and thrust them slowly, causing Blurr's armor to flutter.
"Partly," Blurr muttered, so quiet Ricochet almost didn't catch it. He rocked back a few more times on Ricochet's fingers before he abruptly pulled away, tipping onto his side on the rickety berth.
Both Jazz and Blurr sprawled on the berth, looking wrecked and delicious. Ricochet absently palmed his repressurizing spike, not sure which of the delectable sights he wanted to ravish again first.
"We should talk," Jazz said as he crossed one arm behind his head, though the other dropped down to his array, lazily stroking his swollen valve. "About what happens next."
Ricochet fluttered his optical visor. "We can do that in the mornin'. I got better things in mind."
Blurr rolled over onto his belly, but there was invitation in the way he pulled up his knee, showing off his still bare array. "As long as I get some recharge eventually."
Ricochet leaned in, one hand sliding up Blurr's nearest thigh while the other curved around his brother's knee. "Eventually."
***
Universe: TF G1/IDW
Characters: Blurr, Jazz, Bluestreak, Ricochet, Prowl, Rodimus, Drift, Ratchet
Pairings: Blurr/Jazz, Blurr/Ricochet, Blurr/Ricochet/Jazz, Ricochet/Jazz, Bluestreak/Jazz, Drift/Ratchet,
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Twincest, Mechpreg, Canon Typical Violence
Description: Blurr happens to enjoy life on post-war Cybertron, but when a serial murderer starts targeting former Wreckers, Blurr ends up saddled with a bodyguard who rubs him in all the wrong ways. Or right ways, if you were to ask Ricochet. Let the battle begin.
Commission for MamaBlurr.
Blurr asked to see Ricochet in private.
No one batted an optic or tried to deny him. Which was a stark contrast to the reception Jazz received whenever he tried to get a few minutes with Ricochet. Prowl’s orders apparently.
Sometimes, Prowl could be an aft.
Blurr waited for them to bring Ricochet in. He sat in a hard chair with too high of a back, on one side of a metal table with magnetic strips to attach the magna-cuffs. The room was sterile and empty, without so much as a piece of art on the wall or a mirror, though the vid-recorders in each of the corners were proof nothing went unseen.
They would be able to speak in private, true, but it was recorded and would probably be reviewed later. No matter. Blurr had no intention to explain the partial truth of why he was here. He had his part in the plan. That was all he had to do.
Blurr twitched. He rapped his fingers on the table. He stared at the doorway, willing it to open, anxiety twisting into a knot inside his tank.
He’d decided to keep the sparkling, no matter what Ricochet wanted. He wasn’t even sure he cared what Ricochet wanted. He needed to find out.
He needed to know if Ricochet was worthy of trust first.
The door opened. Ricochet shuffled inside, cuffed at the wrist and ankle, escorted by one of the Enforcers.
“Sit,” the Enforcer demanded in a tone lacking all personality.
Ricochet’s visor brightened when he saw Blurr. He sat, resting his hands on the table so his cuffs could be magnetized to the strip. Blurr assumed there was a strip beneath the table for his feet as well.
“You’re so polite and charming,” Ricochet drawled with a tilted look at his escort. “Can I get ya transferred to my block maybe? I could use more personality around there.”
The Enforcer glared. “Behave,” he said without so much as a look at Blurr. “You’re being monitored.” He pointed to the vid-recorders. “If we think for a moment you’re going to turn violent, we will respond with extreme prejudice.”
Ricochet spread his hands, palms up, clanking the magna-cuffs. “I’m all tied up, officer. Not much I can do.” He grinned, showing his denta.
Blurr cycled a ventilation. This was the mech he’d tied himself to. Ricochet couldn’t resist poking authority. That had to be the Decepticon in him.
Then again, Jazz wasn’t much better.
The Enforcer’s engine growled before he finally acknowledged Blurr. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thanks,” Blurr said. “But I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
The guard left. He locked the door behind him, the quiet click of it filling the empty space. Blurr watched his exit, drumming the fingers of one hand on the table. Suddenly, he couldn’t think of any words.
“So,” Ricochet said, popping the word with far more exuberance than someone in his position had right to hold. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting? Please tell me it’s a conjugal visit. My hand’s getting tired.”
Blurr snorted and shifted his attention back to Ricochet. Now that he was paying attention, he could see the hints of anxiety in Ricochet’s frame, the light flutter of his armor, the paler shade of his visor. Autobots tended to dislike former Decepticons. Especially former Decepticons who had been accused of committing atrocities against Autobots.
Jazz had been right to want to free his brother.
“Is it true?” Blurr asked, because he was too tired and stressed to think about having tact. Besides, he figured Ricochet would prefer bluntness.
Ricochet snorted a laugh. “That’s all you wanted to ask? Really?” He leaned back as far as the manacles would allow him and gestured with his fingers. “No, it’s not fragging true. I ain’t killed no one in years. And I certainly ain’t murdered no Autobot Wreckers.”
His accent had thickened. It took Blurr a moment or two to pick out what Ricochet meant. Anger spiked from him in waves, as though there was something about this room which made it harder for him to conceal his usually walled off emotions.
He couldn’t lie in here, Blurr thought. At least, not with his field. Not without having to concentrate really, really hard.
Good to know.
“Why would someone try to frame you?” Blurr asked.
“Frag if I know.” Ricochet huffed, and his engine revved noisily. “I’m an easy target? I was here? They wanted to get Prowl and his cronies off their tail? Do I look like a criminal mastermind to you?”
Blurr arched an orbital ridge.
“Never mind. Don’t answer that.” Ricochet sank down in his seat, looking for all the universe as though he were pouting. “It don’t matter. It fragging wasn’t me, which if anyone around here had two chips to rub together, they’d have put that together by now.” He raised his voice and tilted his head back, glaring at the ceiling.
Silence.
“Anyway.” Ricochet shifted back to Blurr and knocked the table with his knuckles. “Why do you care if I’m innocent or not? It’s got nothing to do with you.”
Blurr pressed his lips together. Now probably would be a good time to bring up the sparkling. It was a good enough reason as any and didn’t involve anything as messy as feelings. Not that Blurr had any feelings for Ricochet.
The words were on the tip of his glossa, but just then, the power flickered. In the distance, Blurr heard a low, echoing whump like an explosion or a building collapse. That couldn’t be a coincidence.
Jazz hadn’t told him the particulars of the plan, but Blurr wasn’t stupid. He’d been a Wrecker. He didn’t need a play-by-play to read the situation.
He pretended to be surprised.
Ricochet, however, looked up, and his mouth spread open in a grin. “Well, sounds like there might be a bit of a disturbance outside.”
“Sounds like,” Blurr agreed.
Ricochet tipped his head. “Doesn’t get you out of answering my question though.”
The door clicked open, one of the guards slipping inside, his field surging outward with a harried edge. He strode straight toward Ricochet and gave a tug to the magna-cuffs, perhaps checking that they were secure.
“What’s going on?” Blurr asked.
“Nothing to concern yourself about, sir,” the guard replied in a sharp tone. “Stay here, and you’ll be safe. You may continue to talk.” He pointed at Ricochet firmly. “Behave.”
Ricochet chuckled. “I am on my best behavior, obviously. I don’t know why you’d think I’d be otherwise.” He beamed a disingenuous smile.
He was treated to another warning glare before the guard slipped back out. The lights flickered again, and Blurr swore he could hear shouting and mechs running. Ah, chaos. Definitely sounded like Jazz was to blame.
Ricochet gave a token tug to the manacles, rattling them. “If I wanted to escape, these wouldn’t stop me.” He flashed his visor in a wink. “So let me guess.” He pointed upward with his thumbs. “My brother?”
Blurr frowned and feigned confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His gaze flickered to the vid-recorders. The last thing he needed was for anyone to get a sniff he was involved in the jailbreak.
Ricochet laughed. “Primus, you’re adorable. I can’t wait to get you to a berth again.” His glossa swept over his lips, the darkness in his visor turning hot and hunger.
Blurr’s insides twisted with want.
The door opened again, actually startling Blurr because he hadn’t expected it to be so soon after the last. The guard who slipped inside looked much different than the other before him, though he was still branded an Enforcer and had the telltale marks on his shoulders.
“What’s going on?” Blurr asked, pushing to rise and only getting halfway out of his chair when the guard held up a hand to him.
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” he replied, gruff and dismissive. He pulled out some kind of device and waved it over the magnacuffs, freeing Ricochet from his attachment to the table. “Come on. Time to go back to your cell.”
Ricochet didn’t move. “But I’m still having a conversation.” He grinned and tossed a sly wink at Blurr. “My partner here owes me that conjugal visit.”
“I do not,” Blurr hissed. “And we’re not partners.”
The Enforcer wrapped his fingers around Ricochet’s nearest upper arm and tugged him off the chair and out from behind the table. “You’re done.”
Blurr fully stood, planting his hands on the table. “I was promised at least fifteen minutes.”
“We’re on a full security shutdown. That privilege has been revoked. Come back later.” He yanked rudely on Ricochet, dragging him toward the door.
Blurr made a point to memorize his badge number. He would have words. That kind of rough treatment was not necessary.
“It’s really too bad,” Ricochet let himself be dragged, though he tossed a smirk back at Blurr. “Maybe next time we’ll get that frag, eh? I know you’ve been missing my spike.”
Blurr growled and dropped back down his chair. “Frag you.”
Ricochet chuckled. “All in due time.”
The guard sighed a rumbling ventilation. “Someone will come escort you out, sir,” he said, his tone tight and angry. “Let’s go.”
Ricochet clucked his glossa and gave Blurr a little wave before he was pulled out the door. It locked behind them, trapping Blurr in the room. Distantly, alarms shrieked and mechs shouted, but the sirens for a city-wide lockdown hadn’t gone off, which meant it was a localized disturbance.
Blurr sighed and leaned back in his chair, offlining his optics. He didn’t know how long he had to wait, but he hoped it was soon. He’d left Drift in the waiting room -- on Drift’s insistence, not Blurr’s. He hadn’t wanted Blurr to be alone since the “revelation” had left him visibly imbalanced.
There was a killer out there, after all, and Drift hadn’t needed any convincing to know it wasn’t Ricochet. He’d somewhat made himself Blurr’s bodyguard in Ricochet’s absence. Like Jazz, Blurr hadn’t been able to convince Drift otherwise, not even when Ratchet pointed out that Drift had been a Wrecker, too.
“That’s like prey protecting prey,” he’d said with a snort. “Idiots.”
Blurr started to doze by the time the door opened again, and he wasn’t sure if it was because so much time had passed, or because the sparkling was wreaking merry havoc on his energy levels. Again. Either way, he startled awake when the first guard from before came into the room, his gaze landing on Blurr immediately.
“Where is the prisoner?” he demanded, hand falling to the holstered weapon at his side.
Blurr cycled his optics. “A guard came and got him.” He rubbed his face and rose from the chair. He was ready to go home and await news from Jazz. “Are you here to escort me out?”
“Who was it?” the guard demanded, searching through the room as though Ricochet had escaped through a hidden panel.
Blurr frowned. “It’s not my job to keep track of your prisoners. Can I leave now?”
The Enforcer gave a frustrated huff after his futile search produced nothing. The room was small and monitored. There was nowhere Blurr could have stashed Ricochet.
“Let’s go.”
Blurr snorted. “Gladly.”
The place was a slaghole, but Ricochet had slept in worse. He’d made more terrible places his home. He’d holed up in deeper slagpits during the war. Whatever it took to survive.
At least there was more than one room. At least he had a berth and a vidscreen and an energon dispenser. Sure he was about three levels below the surface of Cybertron, and it was dank and dark and eerily quiet with some weird drip he couldn't find no matter how hard he looked. But it was safe and hidden, and only Jazz could find him here.
No one skulked better than a streetrat, that’s for sure. And while Ricochet had more experience living on the streets than his brother, they’d both had their down and outs.
“I’ll be back,” Jazz had promised, and Ricochet had grabbed him and all but eaten his mouth from desperation.
Days with only his hand weren’t pleasant. Especially when guards kept shouting at him to stop being so obscene. Hah. As if they didn’t go home and self-service themselves.
Ricochet was bored. Bored and horny and anxious with worry, not that he’d admit the latter aloud. What if Prowl realized Jazz was to blame? What if he assumed it and called for Jazz’s arrest? How in the frag would Ricochet break Jazz out of jail if he was a fugitive himself?
He gnawed on his talontips, like he told himself he wouldn’t do anymore, and he paced, occasionally pausing to glare at the door. He had no comm signals down here. It was good, because it meant he couldn’t be tracked, but it was bad, because that meant Jazz couldn’t let him know what was going on.
Frag it.
He counted down the minutes. He waited, on bolts and brackets, and when he heard someone fiddling with the door panel, he oscillated between delight that his brother had come back, and suspicion that it was someone else.
He prepared the blaster Jazz had given him just in case.
It flung open with a rattle, a clunk, and a muttered curse in a voice Ricochet was intimately familiar with. He relaxed, stowing his pistol, as Jazz came into view, shaking his hand and sticking a finger into his mouth.
“Well, no one’s gonna get the drop on ya with that damn door,” he muttered.
“Took you long enough,” Ricochet growled as he hooked his hand in Jazz’s collar fairing and yanked his twin into a kiss, tasting spilled energon on his brother’s lip.
Jazz made a muffled sound and melted into the kiss, his mouth opening as he grabbed at Ricochet’s sides, leaning in. His field was a frazzled mess compared to the clinical calm it had been earlier, and Ricochet could taste the frenzied desperation in him.
He broke off the kiss with a bite to Jazz’s lower lip, and felt his twin shiver in response. “Berthroom,” Ricochet growled. “Now.”
Jazz’s visor flickered. His fingers curved against Ricochet’s armor. “Okay,” he said, in that wonderfully obedient tone of his.
Ricochet grinned, molten heat pooling in his belly and further southward, his spike thickening within its sheath.
“Good boy.” He nuzzled his brother, lips running hot and wet over Jazz’s audial. “It’s all your fault, you know. Took too long to get me out, I couldn’t even jerk off without someone yelling at me.” He looked past Jazz, caught sight of Blurr loitering in the doorway, expression unreadable, and smirked. “Ya better fix it.”
Jazz’s fingers dug into his seams, pressing hard against a cable. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I can do that.”
“So I should just go then?” Blurr demanded with an arched orbital ridge, his arms crossing over his chest.
He looked just as delectable as he had across the table in the interview room. Ricochet had wanted to bend him over that table. He wanted it twice as much now. Especially with that edge of jealousy to his tone.
“Close the door. I’m a fugitive after all,” Ricochet drawled, and slid an arm around his brother’s waist, hand skating down to cup Jazz’s aft. “And ya got two choices here, Zippy. Ya can sit around and wait here in the front room, cause I’m fragging someone right now whether you're here or not, or you can have the ride of your life and join us.”
A low keen of want bubbled in Jazz’s intake. He turned his head into Ricochet’s intake and lips and denta scraped over Ricochet’s cables. “Please,” Jazz murmured.
Ricochet grinned and patted Jazz on the aft. “Bro certainly wants it. So it’s up to you.”
Blurr’s gaze darted from him to Jazz and back again. “Seriously?”
“Do I look like I’m jokin’?” Ricochet turned his attention to Jazz, biting on the side of his neck, hard enough to leave a mark. Jazz shuddered and moaned, pressing harder against him, as if trying to climb into his armor.
Ricochet chuckled. “Don’t worry, bro. I’ll frag ya stupid.”
“Promise?”
“With all my spike.” Ricochet promised and Jazz’s field flooded over his, thick with the prickling of his volcanic need. Poor thing. He must not have managed to convince Bluestreak in Ricochet’s absence.
Ricochet pulled Jazz into another kiss before he spun Jazz toward the berthroom and gave him a little push. He turned to follow and tossed a look over his shoulder.
“Make yourself at home,” he said with a broad gesture. “Or feel free to join us. Up to you.”
He went into the berthroom without waiting for Blurr to reply, the breadth of Jazz’s need like a pull he couldn’t ignore. Ricochet could sympathize. He had a fairly high interface drive as it was, but he wasn’t like Jazz. He wasn’t - for lack of a better word - needy. Jazz needed someone to stabilize him, and there were many names Ricochet had in the back of his mind of mechs who’d taken advantage of that during the war.
A thought for another time, however.
Jazz flopped on the berth ahead of Ricochet, and he was crawling across it, his aft presenting a delicious target. Ricochet growled and tackled him, the ancient berth giving a warning creak as he pinned Jazz to the berth, grinding hard against his aft. Ricochet latched on the back of Jazz’s neck, denta gnawing at his cables, and Jazz went from taut to limp, his field exploding in a magnified burst of lust.
That complete surrender would never be anything but delicious. Ricochet growled and bit at his neck again, snaking a hand around to probe at Jazz’s array, finding his panels already open, and two fingers sinking into Jazz’s valve with ease. He was dripping, his calipers cycling tight around Ricochet’s fingers.
“Oh, someone missed me,” Ricochet purred against his neck. He licked at the bitemarks and Jazz shivered, moaning as he pushed back at him.
He plunged his fingers deeper, curving them to hook against the bundle of sensors right behind Jazz’s rim. His brother gasped and arched against him, valve spiraling tight and hungry.
“Someone missed me a lot.” Ricochet ground against his aft, enjoying the scrub of it before he pulled back, and Jazz whined his disappointment.
Ricochet patted him on the side. “Turn over, bro. I wanna see how desperate you are.” He slid his knees back a little, making room for Jazz to obey.
And obey he did. Jazz scrambled over onto his back, thighs splaying wide, spike bobbing at the apex of them and his valve bare and rippling. His pleats were swollen, damp with lubricant, and his biolights pulsed in bright intervals. He threw his hands over his head, palms open, and his lips were parted, his glossa sweeping over them.
Ricochet settled between his knees and slid three fingers into his twin, watching as Jazz arched and moaned, his thighs quivering, his armor plates fluttering. More lubricant spilled out, and a bead of pre-come slithered from the tip of his spike. Ricochet palmed his own array with his other hand, his spike extending into his fingers, pressurizing at a rapid pace.
“Hard and fast?” he asked as he thumbed Jazz’s anterior node, first with a hard pressure, then a soft circle. Jazz’s hips arched up and a low growl resonated from his engine.
Jazz fisted the berth covers above his head. “Anyway you’ll give it.” He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, biting down hard.
Primus, he was gorgeous. Ricochet wanted to eat him up.
His backplates prickled. On the edge of his field, he tasted bits of arousal, jealousy, curiosity. It radiated against his back.
Ricochet curved his fingers again, playing with Jazz’s sensors, but he glanced over his shoulder. Blurr stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed, expression back to unreadable. Save for the hunger. It made his optics glow blue and bright.
“I don’t mindya just watchin’,” Ricochet said as he thumbed Jazz’s node again, making his brother shudder. “But you look more the participatin’ type.”
Blurr’s intake bobbed. His glossa swept across his lips. “Looks like I’d just get in the way.”
“There’s always room for more.” Ricochet chuckled and tilted his head, gesturing for Blurr to join them. “Get over here.”
“Yeah,” Jazz rasped, his tone thick with need and completely wrecked. “Been a while for you ‘n me, right, Blurr? Miss my favorite Racer.”
Blurr snorted and pushed off the doorway, coming further into the room. “Not my fault you’ve been MIA.” He stepped around the berth, into view of Jazz at least, and his optics went even brighter, his field drenching them both in lust.
Ricochet stroked his brother’s anterior nub again, and Jazz shivered, his visor flashing hot-white.
“Come here,” Jazz said. “Wanna frag you.”
Primus. Ricochet swallowed a groan, his processor supplying an image of his brother’s spike vanishing into Blurr’s valve, and Blurr bobbing up and down in front of him, that gorgeous aft of his within grabbing range.
Blurr slanted a gaze at Ricochet. “Feels like I should be asking permission.”
“You’ve already got it, Speedy.” Ricochet withdrew his fingers, much to Jazz’s displeasure, and gave his brother a pat on the valve. “Climb on. He’s a good ride. I promise.”
“I already knew that.” Blurr gave him a sour look -- such a pouty thing, but that was what happened with spoiled mechs used to attention. But he put a knee on the berth, and he leaned down and kissed Jazz, much kinder than Ricochet had been.
Pfft. That was why the two of them would never be anything more than frag buddies. Blurr had no idea what Jazz really needed. Though the two of them together were hot as frag.
Ricochet licked his lips and sat back, content to watch as Blurr’s hand crept up Jazz’s abdomen and snuck under his bumper, teasing the sensitive components hidden behind it. Jazz shuddered and grabbed the back of Blurr’s head to deepen the kiss.
They were a pretty, pretty sight.
Jazz’s spike gave a jerk, and more pre-fluid beaded at the tip. Ricochet decided to be gracious and wrapped a hand around it, giving him a slow, squeezing stroke. Jazz hissed into the kiss, his backstrut arching, and he pulled back with a gasp.
“Please tell me I get ta frag ya,” Jazz said as he bucked up into Ricochet’s hand.
Blurr chuckled. “Only because I like the sound of you begging.” He swung a knee over and straddled Jazz’s hips, Ricochet’s fist bumping along the inside of his thighs.
His damp thighs.
Ricochet’s orbital ridges rose. He tilted his head, getting a peek. Sure enough, Blurr’s panels were already open, his spike extended and his valve bared and dripping. Had the thought of being a part of this triad excited him? How long had he stood there watching, getting wetter or wetter?
Kinky little fragger, wasn’t he?
Blurr bent over to kiss Jazz again, and his aft rose, giving Ricochet a long look at the damp of his valve, the flickering biolights, the swollen rise of his anterior node. Ricochet groaned and slid his fingers over Blurr's slick, curving two into Blurr's valve, producing a shudder from the Racer. He slid his other hand back into Jazz's valve, gathered up lubricant, and slicked it over Jazz's spike.
The two of them deepened their kiss, frames moving together, dances of charge already curling out from beneath their armor. Jazz had his hands hooked in Blurr's armor, and Blurr braced himself on the berth, his thighs trembling.
Ricochet wanted to eat them both.
He held Jazz's spike and rested his lubricant damp hand on Blurr's hip. "Come on, Zippy. Sink down. Take my brother in that pretty valve of yers."
Blurr groaned and canted his hips, knees spreading so he could roll down.
"Slowly now. No need to rush," Ricochet purred, his insides exploding with blistering need, his spike throbbing and jerking, beads of pre-fluid sliding from the tip. "Don't move, bro. Just wait for it."
He relished the way Jazz froze, though his frame trembled from the force of his restraint. His spike throbbed in Ricochet's grip, spilling more pre-come, but he didn't thrust. He held himself, waiting.
Ricochet guided Blurr down and aimed Jazz at his valve, watching him slowly, so slowly, sink into Blurr. They both moaned, frames tensing, Blurr curving forward to kiss Jazz again, sloppy and wet, until Jazz was fully seated and lubricant beaded up around him.
Ricochet groaned at the sight and palmed Blurr's aft, giving it a squeeze. He rose up on his knees, rutting against Blurr's aft, his spikehead grinding over the point where Jazz and Blurr had joined.
"It's like a fantasy come ta life," he gasped, his spike leaving wet smears on the back of Blurr's thighs.
"Can I move?" Jazz asked.
"Just a little," Ricochet said, and held on Blurr's hips, watching as Jazz planted his feet in the berth and started to rock, only half withdrawing from Blurr before he plunged it again, causing a wave of electric fire to dance over Blurr's armor.
Ricochet's hands slid down, his thumbs swiping inward, running over the panel concealing Blurr's port. "What do ya say, Zippy? Ever been fragged in the aft?"
Blurr glanced over his shoulder, over the rise of his kibble. "Of course I have."
Shame. Ricochet would have liked to be the one to break him in. There's nothing quite like the look on a mech's face, the first time he overloaded from port stimulation.
Ricochet smirked at him and pressed in with his thumbs pointedly. "Gonna let me in then?" he asked and swept one hand downward, finger tracing Blurr's rim where it stretched around Jazz's spike, still slowly pumping into him. "Or should we share this? I'm good either way."
"No sharing yet," Blurr said. "I don't have the patience for it." His port panel spiraled open invitingly.
Ricochet's engine purred. He rubbed over the smaller opening with the pad of one thumb, while he slicked his other fingers in Jazz's valve, making his brother arch and sigh. He gave Jazz a light tap on the thigh.
"Be still," he ordered, and brought his lubricant wet thumb to Blurr's port, spreading the slick around before he nudged it inside.
Blurr groaned, backstrut curving, aft pushing back toward Ricochet's digit. His frame accepted Ricochet's thumb easily, and the forefinger he added after. Oh, yes. He had experience in this.
Good.
Ricochet's insides rumbled with need. He hastily spread his own pre-fluid over his spike and rose up on his knees, lining up against Blurr's port. He rubbed the head of his spike against it, teasing Blurr with penetration.
"Slow?" he asked, though he shook from restraint. It'd been a long, lonely incarceration.
"No." Blurr pushed back against him again, a full-frame shudder dancing over his armor. "Now."
Ricochet groaned through his denta and grabbed Blurr's hips, his spikehead pressing firmly against Blurr's lubricant-slick port. Blurr shivered in his grasp, and rocked back, until he popped inside with a moan from both of them. His processor spun at the delicious squeeze, and he had to cycle a steadying ventilation before he could continue, sliding deep into Blurr until he bottomed out, and his spike was swallowed by clenching heat.
His cooling fans cluttered to life, filling the room with noise. Ricochet curved forward, tightening his grip on Blurr's hips. Blurr had sank down, until he was almost entirely laid out on Jazz, his field swirling with arousal and need. Jazz was scorching heat, trembling so hard he rattled, his spike still buried deep in Blurr.
Ricochet was on top. Where he was supposed to be. He set the pace, and his partners could do nothing but hold on for the ride.
He pulled back and thrust in, hard enough to rock Blurr atop Jazz's frame. The both of them groaned, and Jazz bucked up, thrusting in counterpoint to Ricochet. Blurr keened, forehead dipping to land on Jazz's shoulder, his fingers curling into the berthcovers.
"You okay, Speedy?" Ricochet asked as he picked up the pace, his cables tensing and sensornet exploding with pleasure.
"Fine!" Blurr gritted out and rolled his hips, down onto Jazz and back onto Ricochet, rocking back and forth between them. Peeks of his spike grinding down against Jazz's abdomen left streaks of pre-fluid in his wake. "Don't stop."
Primus, could he get any more perfect?
Ricochet smirked.
The rest was ecstasy. He stopped holding back. He plunged into Blurr, deep, driving thrusts that forced him down against Jazz, squeezing out moans and whines from both of them. Jazz's field was a swirl of clawing hunger, and he fell into the pleasure with abandon. Blurr was more restrained, but he melted into Ricochet's thrusts, giving himself over the pleasure like a mech born into it.
His port squeezed taut, not quite the spiraling tightness of a valve, but equally satisfying. He was hot inside, molten, and Ricochet plunged into him, again and again, his own vents coming in sharp bursts, his field filling the room with satisfaction and pleasure.
Jazz overloaded first, buried beneath their frames. Ricochet knew the cadence of his brother's pleasure, knew the exact timbre of his engine, and the pitch it reached when he crested the edge. He bucked up, held Blurr down and overloaded hard, backstrut arching so much he nearly bucked off Blurr. Relief flooded Jazz's field, and the muzzy sense of overload satisfaction.
Ricochet picked up the pace, slamming harder and harder into Blurr, shoving him down to rut his spike against Jazz's belly. Jazz pawed at him with nerveless fingers, sliding into seams and teasing cables, mouthing over Blurr's intake.
Ricochet grinned and curved over Blurr, nearly crushing Jazz under their combined weight, not that his twin would protest at all. If anything, Jazz's field opened up to them more, savoring the press of their frames.
Ricochet snaked a hand beneath Blurr, holding him around the waist in place for a nice, deep grind. He sought out the back of Blurr's neck with lips and denta, catching Jazz's gaze over the rise of Blurr's shoulder. He rolled his hips, thrusting to the hilt every time, and licked and bit at Blurr's neck, all the while holding his brother's gaze.
Mine, Ricochet purred through his field, in a way he knew his twin could read. Both of you. Mine.
Jazz jerked his head in a nod, and his visor dimmed into that cool blue of satisfaction, where he went into his head, to the place that made him sweet and compliant. He tipped his head back, bared his intake, and Ricochet would have bit him, if he could.
That was all right. Blurr was equally delicious, and his neck was for the taking. So Ricochet latched on with his denta, biting down, not deep enough to draw energon, but enough to leave a mark. To restore the ones which had healed since he'd been imprisoned.
Blurr shuddered beneath him. His port rippled around Ricochet, and he dipped his head, as if offering his neck to Ricochet, submitting to him.
Delicious.
Ricochet snapped his hips, burying to the hilt, and bit down at the same time. Blurr keened and shuddered beneath Ricochet, his port clenching down in a telltale rhythm. He overloaded, sparks dancing over his frame, biting against Ricochet's armor. He went limp and pliant, dragging air through his vents in sharp gulps.
It only took a handful of thrusts for Ricochet to follow him over, pulling Blurr hard against him as he spilled deep into Blurr's ports, a week's worth of pent up need spurting out of him. His vision filled with static as the overload sizzled through his lines and his sensory net, his cables tensing and easing all at once.
He chuckled hoarsely against the back of Blurr's neck, glossa lapping at the bite mark he'd left. It seeped sluggishly, but his nanites should get to it soon enough. Ricochet purred his approval, circling his hips as his spike softened in Blurr's aft.
He could easily go for another round.
"Off," Blurr muttered as he shifted beneath Ricochet. "Can't ventilate."
"Racers are so delicate," Ricochet said with a soft laugh. He landed another bite on the back of Blurr's neck before he pushed off and back, sliding out of Blurr with a wet pop.
He sat back on his heels, admiring the slow trickle of transfluid from Blurr's port. He rubbed his thumb over it and the swollen rim, and Blurr shivered, his port twitching against Ricochet's digit. Ricochet grinned, sweeping some of the transfluid up and coating his finger with it before he pushed it into Blurr's aft, giving it a little crook.
Blurr groaned and clenched down on him. "Don't you ever get tired?"
Jazz chuckled a little raspily. "You got no room to talk, Blurr."
"You may have a point." Blurr pushed himself up to hands and knees, Jazz slipping free of his valve and more fluids seeping free. His aft shifted back toward Ricochet, however. "Especially lately."
"Do I get to take credit for that?" Ricochet asked as he slid another finger into Blurr and thrust them slowly, causing Blurr's armor to flutter.
"Partly," Blurr muttered, so quiet Ricochet almost didn't catch it. He rocked back a few more times on Ricochet's fingers before he abruptly pulled away, tipping onto his side on the rickety berth.
Both Jazz and Blurr sprawled on the berth, looking wrecked and delicious. Ricochet absently palmed his repressurizing spike, not sure which of the delectable sights he wanted to ravish again first.
"We should talk," Jazz said as he crossed one arm behind his head, though the other dropped down to his array, lazily stroking his swollen valve. "About what happens next."
Ricochet fluttered his optical visor. "We can do that in the mornin'. I got better things in mind."
Blurr rolled over onto his belly, but there was invitation in the way he pulled up his knee, showing off his still bare array. "As long as I get some recharge eventually."
Ricochet leaned in, one hand sliding up Blurr's nearest thigh while the other curved around his brother's knee. "Eventually."
