[TF] Frame of Reference 01/07
Jan. 2nd, 2020 06:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Frame of Reference
Universe: Transformers AU
Characters/Pairings: Prowl/Sideswipe/Sunstreaker, Optimus/Jazz, Megatron/Soundwave, Perceptor/Drift, Ratchet/Starscream, Autobot Ensemble, Decepticon Ensemble
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Interfacing, Angst, Moral and Ethical Quandries
Description: When Drift falls ill, a dive into his coding reveals a secret the Senate tried to bury, a secret that has altered the course of the war since before its inception. Burdened by the truth, the Autobots try their best to set things right, but in the process, Prowl is forced to face his own involvement in the matter – for better or for worse.
Part One
They might have gone on forever, fighting and killing and destroying, if it hadn’t been for Drift. They wouldn’t have found the virus; they wouldn’t have stopped to question. They’d have gone on and on, until there was nothing left but ashes.
If not for a single line of unusual code, they might have never stopped to think.
But Prowl’s getting ahead of himself.
It starts with Drift.
It starts with the Wreckers returning to the fold, landing a rickety ship in the docking bay of Ark-22, the outside scored with laserfire, impact marks, and centuries of hard use. It looks a few seconds away from collapsing on the spot.
The cargo ramp extends and drops with a rusty clatter, tilting off-balance to one side.
“Primus gotta be lookin’ out for them, if they’ve been survivin’ in that thing,” Jazz observes. His face is twisted into a horrified awe, and Prowl wonders if that’s the same look on his own face.
They, along with Ratchet, are the greeting party as Optimus is otherwise occupied with Ironhide and the newest intelligence, which suggests the Decepticons have constructed a new weapon of mass destruction. Weapons being Ironhide’s expertise, he’s poring over the stolen schematics with the kind of eager glee Prowl usually only sees in Wheeljack when caught in the rapture of a new invention.
“They should have rejoined us decades ago,” Prowl says as he notates the condition of the Xantium on his datapad. It will go in his report for Optimus. “What in the universe was Ultra Magnus thinking?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” Jazz says as Ratchet shoulder-checks him, pushing past with all the subtlety of a rampaging combiner, his gaze locked on the stretcher descending the ramp, carried between Top Spin and Twin Twist. Perceptor walks alongside it, fingers of one hand tangled with the patient, the other clutching a datapad.
“Come on, Ratch, that was rude,” Jazz calls after him, but it’s half-sparked at best.
Prowl cycles a vent and stows his datapad for now. Ultra Magnus precedes the stretcher with their injured party member, and his expression is grim. Then again, Ultra Magnus has always been something of a grim mech.
Prowl intercepts him. “Welcome aboard the Ark-22,” he greets, and the two of them exchange polite salutes -- matching rank to rank. “Welcome home, Ultra Magnus.”
“Or as close to home as we have these days,” Ultra Magnus replies with a brief nod. He offers one to Jazz as well. “Lucky you were so close.”
Jazz chuffs a ventilation. “That’s a pretty interesting word there. How the frag you keep that thing from falling out the sky?”
The corner of Ultra Magnus’ mouth lifts toward a smile. “Xantium’s more stable than she looks. We’ve snuck through quite a few blockades by looking worthless.”
“That’s pretty clever, Mags. Who came up with that one?” Jazz asks
“Who else, youngling? You think I’ve survived this long without learnin’ a trick or two?” Kup clatters up beside Ultra Magnus with a laziness to his stride that suggests he’s not even a quarter as dangerous as he actually is. “Taught this one everythin’ he knows.” He throws a thumb at Ultra Magnus.
Jazz chuckles. "Ya taught all of us, old mech." He swaggers forward and clasps hands with Kup. "Glad to see ya alive."
"Back atcha, Jazz. Surprised you ain't thrown yerself on a grenade yet." Kup's raspy laugh echoes in the cargo bay.
Prowl's sensory panels twitch. While it's good to see old friends alive after so long, there are more pressing matters. "What of your soldier?" he asks, trying to steer the conversation back on track. "The one who's ill?"
"Perceptor could probably tell you more about his symptoms," Ultra Magnus says, his tone shifting toward grave. "My understanding only goes as far as realizing we needed an expert's opinion."
"Otherwise you might not have sought us out?" Prowl asks, prodding gently. There's been a long-standing order for the Wreckers to return, though Optimus has never been keen on enforcing it.
Ultra Magnus gives him a long, hard look. "This war is no longer one to be won with grand battles and clashes, but small victories. If I'd thought it prudent to return to the front, I would have."
"Come on, mechs. We ain't startin' this now," Jazz says, sliding between them with his hands held up. "Optimus is waitin', and it looks like your crew could use some downtime. So let's focus on that, yeah?" His visor flashes in Prowl's direction with hard warning.
Prowl arches an orbital ridge. "Who's starting anything?" he asks, keeping his tone cool and controlled. "Optimus is in Tactical, if you'd like to follow me." He turns on a heelstrut, leaving it up to the others to follow, if they want.
He and Ultra Magnus have always had something of a strained relationship. Prowl can't pinpoint precisely why. They serve a different purpose, though they often share Optimus' left hand as Jazz firmly has possession of Optimus' right. Perhaps it's pride.
He'll need to be rid of that as soon as possible. Optimus needs their assistance, not their friction. The war drags ever on, and if there's any hope of seeing an end to it, Prowl and Ultra Magnus will have to work together.
It's as simple as that.
~
It's a familiar frame which comes into Ratchet's medbay.
Some of the lines and angles have changed. There is armor where they'd been minimum protoform and plating. The mech is armed, scarred, covered in weld lines that speak of battle, rather than hard living in the Dead End. But he's Drift all right.
Or Deadlock, as he'd taken to calling himself among the Decepticons.
According to his file, according to Perceptor, he's Drift once more. The circumstances of how and why are vague at best. Perceptor isn't offering details, if he knows them, and Drift isn't in a condition to explain either.
He's in stasis lock.
"I'm certain it's a coding issue," Perceptor says, and his voice has an edge of static, and his hands shake where he grips his datapad. "But I don't feel comfortable diving into his core matrix, and I don't have the permissions for the appropriate software anyway."
Ratchet is many things, but imperceptive is not one of them. It's been a long, long war. Indiscretions happen on both sides of the line. He is not without his own, after all.
He rests a hand over Perceptor's, feels the chill in Perceptor's armor, the tremble of worry and agitation in Perceptor's energy field. "How long?" Ratchet asks, careful to keep his tone gentle.
Perceptor's gaze is locked on his datapad. "The odd behavior started about a month before the glitching, and then-"
"No," Ratchet interrupts, and he squeezes Perceptor's hand, urges him to look up. "How long have you and Drift been together?"
Perceptor freezes. His gaze lifts achingly slow, and the worry in his field strengthens to an almost nauseating force of hinted fear. "Since he was Deadlock," he admits, and there's guilt in the way he worries at his bottom lip with his denta. "I saved his life once. The rest just... happened."
"As it so often does," Ratchet murmurs. He gives Perceptor's hand a little pat and returns his attention to his datapad. "I'm not going to judge. I just want to help Drift. Because I think you're right. This looks like a coding issue."
Perceptor vents, long and slow. "How long can he be in stasis lock before he..."
"That's the beauty of stasis lock. It's specifically designed to protect a mech's core components when there are issues. So long as the corrupted coding doesn't infiltrate his safe state, he'll be just fine." Ratchet offers a smile, though a part of him dreads the task awaiting him.
He hates coding issues. He's never been the best coder. There's a reason he's an effective battle medic, and it's not because he's good at coding.
Primus, but he wishes Shockwave were on their side. He's the best coder Ratchet can think of who's still functioning.
He'll have to the best he can on his own.
"Don't worry," Ratchet says, patting Perceptor on the shoulder. "We're going to figure this out. You're not going to lose him."
"Thank you, Ratchet."
He only hopes he's not telling Perceptor a lie.
~
"Yes, I'm aware Drift used to be a Decepticon," Ultra Magnus says with the first hint of annoyance to enter his tone. "He's not the first defector we've harbored, and I doubt he'll be the last."
Optimus lifts a hand before a sharp rebuttal manages to spill from Prowl. He cuts a look at his current second in command, and Prowl at least has the grace to look chastened.
The discussion, near an argument, has gone on long enough. While Optimus is happy to let his closest confidantes offer their points of view, there’s a time when discussion turns non-productive, and he has a feeling prodding this line of thought is heading that direction.
“Every defector we accept is one less Decepticon to fight,” Optimus says with a gravitas he tries to avoid, but finds it accomplishes more when his subordinates are arguing.
Again.
“Besides, that isn’t the point,” Optimus continues as all optics turn his direction while Prowl makes a note in his datapad. “We’re not here to discuss Drift’s background, but his health. Has anyone else displayed symptoms similar to his?”
Ultra Magnus lifts his chin. “You’re concerned this might be contagious. Perhaps a viral weapon of some sort.”
“The thought did cross my mind,” Ironhide comments as he rubs his chin, engine rumbling with realization. “Not sayin’ Drift woulda done it intentional-like, but ya know how crafty the Cons can be sometimes.”
Prowl makes a non-committal noise. “That is also a concern, yes.”
“If anyone was going to be infected next, it’d be Perceptor, but he’s fine,” Kup says with a roll of his shoulders. “Whatever’s going on, it’s just Drift.”
Prowl frowns.
Optimus raps his fingers on the table, contemplating. “His symptoms? Your report was vague.”
“Agitation. Anger. Aggression.” Ultra Magnus shifts in his chair, fatigue wreathing his frame, his armor creaking. “At first, we thought he was struggling to adjust to life among the Autobots, but it continued to worsen. When the seizures began, we started to suspect a medical reason for his misbehavior.”
“Seizures?” Optimus echoes. He leans forward, worry worming into his spark.
Kup shakes his head. “Look, I ain’t a medic, Prime. All I know is one moment Drift’s in the brig for assaulting Whirl -- which lemme tell you, was probably provoked -- and the next thing we know, he’s flailing about the floor, spitting sparks and screaming.”
Optimus winces.
Prowl’s stylus stops moving, and he slowly lifts a gaze toward Ultra Magnus and Kup, opposite the table from him. “And you’re certain it wasn’t a ploy?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think it’s possible to falsely put oneself into stasis lock,” Ultra Magnus says, his tone so tight and cold, Optimus feels the iciness of it.
“Besides, what would be the point?” Kup asks.
Prowl puts down his datapad and pinches the bridge of his nasal structure. “A medical need outstripping the capability of your onboard professionals would necessitate a return to the nearest fully-staffed facility -- which happens to be this one.” His sensory panels flick sharply, and his field surges through the room with a hint of chastisement. “The Ark-22 is known to house Autobot senior leadership, and is the perfect target for a viral attack, whether by the knowledge of its carrier or not.”
Silence.
Optimus vents, long and slow.
Prowl’s right, of course. They’ve all been so focused with concern over one of their subordinates, over someone Perceptor cares so deeply for, that they’ve neglected to consider the more nefarious implications.
“He’s in quarantine,” Jazz offers up, but his engine revs, and his visor flashes. He’s almost out of his chair, like he wants to jet down to medbay and pull every Autobot medic and scientist out of Drift’s room.
“With the most skilled medic in the Autobot army, our weapons engineer, and a scientific genius,” Prowl says quietly, but if he was the type to say ‘I told you so’, Optimus knows he’d be shouting the words.
Prowl shifts, coughs into his palm. “I am not suggesting we should deny Drift medical care, or that the better course of action would have been to ignore his plight. Neither am I suggesting that he’s a spy or a plant. I’m merely stating the possible consequences.”
Silence again.
Optimus cycles a long ventilation. He rubs his forehead, feeling an ache building behind his optics. “Is there anyway to determine whether Drift’s current state is a danger to the rest of us?”
“Only Ratch can answer that,” Jazz says, and his frown deepens, far from the jovial grin he usually tries to keep. “I mean, I can take a peek at whatever Ratch finds, but if Drift’s some kind of carrier, it’s too late.”
“Damn,” Ironhide mutters, and though no one echoes it aloud, the sentiment is shared by everyone in the room, Optimus included.
“All we can do is brace ourselves then.” Optimus lifts his head, his chin, drawing strength around him like a mantle, because it’s what his mechs need from him. “Keep Drift in quarantine as much as we can. Determine the cause of his illness as soon as possible, and deal with the repercussions as they appear.”
He exchanges a knowing glance with Jazz, who lifts his head in acknowledgment. Before the meeting is over, someone from Special Operations will be keeping an optic on the medbay and its occupants. And until Drift is cured and his illness determined, there will never be a moment he’s not under unbiased observation.
There are times it’s a little frightening how well Jazz understands him. How well they understand each other.
“Now,” Optimus says, shifting to get a bit more comfortable and hopefully, shift the mood of the meeting. “There are other topics, I think, we should put on the table. Ironhide, if you would, please?”
Ironhide grunts and slaps a datapad down on the table. “Yeah, so this is what we think the Cons have cookin’ up now…”
Battle tactics, improvised weaponry, and troop movements -- these at least, Optimus is confident he and his team can handle. As for the rest, they can only wait and see.
~
“I hear there’s a Decepticon in our midst.”
Prowl snorts without looking up from his datapad. “Former Decepticon, to hear them tell it,” he says and makes another notation. Ratchet’s preliminary findings suggest Drift’s sickness is contained to Drift himself, but he’s not ready to sign off on that being a certainty. “Sunstreaker, you’ve encountered him before if I recall correctly.”
“Deadlock,” Sunstreaker says, and Prowl can hear the sneer in his voice, even if he hasn’t looked up to acknowledge his visitors. “That’s one mech I’d never thought would defect. Word has it he and Megatron are close.”
“Like the berth kind of close,” Sideswipe says, and there’s a noisy rattling-thump as he drops down in one of Prowl’s chair with an uncaring flop. “Then again, maybe Megatron is a selfish lover. I’d defect for that.”
Sideswipe’s leering. Prowl doesn’t have to look to know he’s leering. He can feel the leer being directed at him.
“Idiot,” Sunstreaker says, but it’s fond, even as he cuffs his brother on the back of the head. “Be serious for a minute.”
“I am being serious.”
“Do you think he’s a danger?” Prowl asks.
“We’re all dangerous, Prowl,” Sunstreaker says.
“That’s not what he’s asking, Sunny,” Sideswipe retorts, and there’s a dull thwack as he punches Sunstreaker in the hip, prompting a scowl from his twin. “If he’s a double-agent, it would be a smart move. Ratchet has a past with him. Perceptor has a present with him. But Deadlock wasn’t exactly known for being subtle. Get me?”
Prowl makes another scribbled notation and finally looks up. Sunstreaker’s glaring at an unrepentant Sideswipe, both of their armor fluffed, and this is either going to end up in a wrestling match in Prowl’s office, or a wrestling match on the berth later.
Sunstreaker stiffly sits in the other chair and puts a great effort into ignoring his twin. “Megatron would sooner shoot a mech he thinks is fraternizing than try and use that to his advantage,” he says with that unique insight few often get to see from him. “Drift’s sincere, if you ask me. Perceptor seems to think so.”
“Perceptor thinks he’s in love with him. Of course he’d believe Drift,” Sideswipe says with derision ripe in his tone. Prowl isn’t sure if it’s because of Sideswipe’s aversion to the idea of ‘love’ and its weakness, or if it’s because he’s averse to Drift or Perceptor or both.
Sometimes, Sideswipe is the more complicated of the two. He holds his emotions close to his spark, while Sunstreaker has no filter.
Sunstreaker shoots his brother another look Prowl can’t decipher, and he suspects it’s because they’re talking over their bond, as they often do. He waits them out, contemplating a return to his paperwork, before their attention redirects to him.
“Your shift is over,” Sideswipe says, blunt.
“It was over two hours ago,” Sunstreaker points out. “Ultra Magnus is here now. You can share the load. You need to take a break.”
Prowl cycles a ventilation, schools his expression into one of patience. “Their arrival necessitates the shuffling of duties and responsibilities. There is a lot of work left to do.”
“It can wait until tomorrow.” Sunstreaker’s jaw sets, a look of stubbornness writ into his expression, and one on one, the twins are a formidable foe.
Together, they are nearly unbeatable.
Prowl’s resolve crumbles.
There’s an ache in his backstrut, a clench in his tanks, a concern wrapping around his spark. He’s working on data because anxiety has twisted itself into a knot inside of him, and waiting for the verdict on Drift has him on edge. How perfect, then, is a distraction in the shape of his two very handsome lovers.
“Ratch even said he won’t have much of an answer for three whole shifts,” Sideswipe says, and there’s a devilish grin on his face, a perky flicker of his armor as there always is, when he’s tormenting one of his favorite mechs on the ship.
Ratchet has the dubious honor of being one such mech, though the fact that he’s made himself pseudo-caretaker toward the twins means any irritation Sideswipe causes him is his own fault.
Sunstreaker rises and circles the desk. Prowl feels a bit like prey, trapped as he is with the predator approaching him.
“Come,” Sunstreaker says, rather than wheedles, and he leans in close, shiny and freshly washed and waxed. “Your paint is atrocious.”
“You say the sweetest things,” Sideswipe says with a roll of his optics, but he’s sitting back in his own chair with a look of absolute determination in his face.
It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve bodily hauled him out of his office, wrestled him into a washrack, and coaxed him into the berth with sweet kisses. Sometimes, Prowl enjoys the struggle as much as he enjoys giving in.
“Sideswipe made treats,” Sunstreaker adds as he cups Prowl’s jaw, brushing a thumb over his bottom lip. “But you can’t have any if you don’t take a break.”
Prowl aims for a stern look, but his twitching sensory panels betray him. “I am confused about who the superior officer is here,” he says, but he leans into Sunstreaker’s touch, feeling the exhaustion in his backstrut, and the anxiety gnawing on his cortex.
Sideswipe snorts. “It’s definitely not you.” He shoves to his feet and sweeps the datapads off Prowl’s desk -- he’s learned by now how Prowl stacks his work by order of priority.
“No, it’s not,” Sunstreaker murmurs in agreement, and his mouth falls over Prowl’s, deliciously gentle and corrupting, and Prowl has no hope to concentrate on work now. Not with the taste of Sunstreaker on his lips, and the promise in the kiss.
“No more work tonight,” Prowl agrees.
He’ll table his worries for now. He has twins to snuggle.
He supposes he can table his worries for now. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe deserve his attention as well, and he doesn't want to neglect them. He cares for them too much for that.
So he lets them coax him from his office with gentle caresses and warm kisses that taste of stolen high grade and wheedled energon candies. Or perhaps fresh made. Sideswipe considers himself something of a chemist, and Prowl has done his best to encourage that, though delicately. Encourage too much and Sideswipe will quit on principle alone.
Back in Prowl's quarters, their shared quarters truth be told, as he can't remember the last time they slept in the soldier barracks, the lights stay low and intimate.
"If we turn on the lights, you might think it permission to turn on your work console," Sideswipe says as he tugs Prowl toward the berth with heat in his optics.
That they desire him enough to put in such effort will never cease to amaze and humble Prowl. He knows they fear he is out of their league, but truth be told, Prowl knows they deserve much better than a mech like him, a mech who works too much, who holds his emotions too close, who can barely string three words of affection together.
"And we can't have that," Sunstreaker says, already waiting with arms open to receive Prowl as Sideswipe guides him into reach. "Mm. There you are," he murmurs and pulls Prowl down into another kiss, his hands sweeping hungry patterns over Prowl's armor.
The berth creaks as Sideswipe joins them with a little bounce. "Any preferences tonight?" he asks as he stretches out in the bare space behind Sunstreaker, panels open, fingers stroking over his array in obvious invitation.
Prowl's mouth goes dry with want. He licks his lips. "I would taste you," he says, in answer to Sideswipe, and he catches Sunstreaker's gaze. "If you'll have me at the same time."
A shiver runs through Sunstreaker's armor. His optics darken with hunger. "Always," he says, and seizes Prowl into another kiss, this one more fierce and claiming, his hands gripping Prowl's aft and squeezing.
"Nnn. Sunny, don't hog him," Sideswipe whines as the berth shifts again. He pulls himself up, leaning against the wall, but leaving plenty of room for Prowl to slide between his legs, put his mouth over a spike hard and slick with pre-fluid, or slide his tongue over a valve bright and blinking readily.
"Patience," Sunstreaker says, without looking, as he presses his forehead to Prowl's, sharing a conspiratorial grin. He slides his hands around the curve of Prowl's aft. "Should we make him wait longer?"
Prowl chuckles quietly. "He'll start without us."
Certainly enough, there's a quiet moan and the slick sound of Sideswipe stroking himself, fingers caressing the rim of his valve and flirting over his nodes.
"He's such a brat," Sunstreaker murmurs, but he steals another kiss before releasing Prowl to tend to their impatient third.
"A badge I wear with pride," Sideswipe declares as Prowl eases his way across the berth and between Sideswipe's knees. "Come here, beautiful," he says and pulls Prowl into a kiss, which puts him off-balance, but it's worth it for the warm press of Sideswipe's mouth to his.
Beautiful, he says, but Prowl's not sure he believes it. Maybe finds it a little easier since they say it so often and with such sincerity, but he looks at himself compared to the dual beauty that the twins are, and he wonders how they can call him such, when they can see themselves.
Sunstreaker's hands fall on the back of Prowl's sensory panels, fingers sweeping over and around, finding every spot that fills him with heat and makes him tingle. It all pools southward, gathering hot and heavy in his groin, and his panels spiral open, freeing his array to the open air, the caress of Sunstreaker's fingers.
Prowl groans against Sideswipe's mouth as Sunstreaker strokes slippery-wet over Prowl's anterior node, and drags his fingers over Prowl's swollen pleats, spreading his lubricant around.
"In me," Prowl demands, over his shoulder, need growing inside of him. They always make him feel so open and wanton, like he's free to express his wants. Encouraged, even, because their arousal magnifies tenfold when he asks anything of them.
Sideswipe strokes a thumb over his bottom lip. "Still want to give me this?"
Prowl licks the tip of his thumb in answer, then shifts down, down, down, until his mouth hovers over the wet tip of Sideswipe's spike, rigid and full with arousal. The smell of his need floods Prowl's receptors. Arousal throbs heavy and deep in his system.
He takes Sideswipe into his mouth, tonguing the head first, probing the channel slit with his glossa, before swallowing him.
Sideswipe groans and cradles Prowl's head. The hungry weight of Sideswipe’s gaze falls on Prowl -- Sideswipe likes to watch -- and when he looks up, their optics meet, Sideswipe's dark with desire.
Prowl's face heats. Perhaps because of Sideswipe's rapt attention, or perhaps because Sunstreaker's fingers have been insistent over his valve, stroking and plucking and driving him to distraction. Prowl makes an urgent noise, a frustrated sound, pushing back into the cradle of Sunstreaker's hips, where a wet spike brushes his aft.
"Now who's the one being impatient?" Sideswipe teases as he strokes Prowl's cheeks, his hips rocking ever so gently into Prowl's mouth.
Prowl glares at him.
Sideswipe's smile widens. "Better hurry, Sunny, before he decides to bite my spike in retaliation."
Oh, but the temptation.
Sunstreaker chuckles quietly, but he obeys, his lubricant-sticky fingers cradling Prowl's aft as his spike nudges Prowl's valve. Prowl widens his knees, rocks back, and moans as Sunstreaker pierces him, achingly slow, filling his valve inch by inch. Prowl's elbows dig into the berth, his hands cradle Sideswipe's hips, and he vocalizes around Sideswipe's spike.
Their fields swell, tingling with heat and desire. They wrap him up in it. Prowl sinks into the pleasure as if its the easiest thing in the world.
Their rhythm is easy. Practiced. Familiar. The twins work together in this as well as they work elsewhere. As Sunstreaker sinks forward, Sideswipe rocks his hips upward, and they slide into him at the same moment. Prowl moans around Sideswipe's spike, pleasure throbbing through his array.
"Primus, you're gorgeous," Sideswipe groans, his optics wide as he holds Prowl's face, thumbs stroking his cheeks, watching the slide of himself into Prowl's mouth.
Prowl shivers, and Sunstreaker strokes deep into him, hips circling to ensure he caresses every one of Prowl’s inner nodes. His hand paints a pattern over Prowl’s sensory panels, while the other slides beneath him, curling around his spike in a firm grip. He strokes Prowl perfectly, warm and squeezing with that little twist that never fails to make lightning crawl up Prowl’s spinal strut.
He groans, long and low, around Sideswipe’s spike, and is rewarded with a sharp vent, a little buck of Sideswipe’s hips. His spike throbs on Prowl’s glossa, pre-fluid beading thick and sticky down Prowl’s intake.
Prowl takes him deeper, lips stretched around the girth of him. He wants to taste Sideswipe’s pleasure and know it’s because of something he’s done, while Sunstreaker’s pace picks up, pushing harder and faster into him, making his nodes sing.
It’s a blur of pleasure, of touch and noise, vents and cooling fans, a litany of moans and gasps, and Sideswipe’s ongoing commentary, encouraging his twin, Prowl, speaking lewd things to make Prowl’s audials heat, but his internals spark with desire. He goes languid between them, letting Sideswipe guide his mouth, and Sunstreaker hold him in place for each deep stroke. It’s easy to abandon his control to them, let them set the pace, offer his trust.
He knows, by now, they won’t betray it. Trust, to them, is a precious and fragile thing. Prowl is damn lucky to have earned theirs, and he’s handed his own back in return.
Primus, he loves them.
Overload hits him hard and fierce and sudden. Prowl stills, ecstasy sweeping through his frame, Sideswipe falling from his lips as he arches back into Sunstreaker’s grip. His valve clenches, his spike spurts a mess on the berth, and his field flashes through the room with a bonfire of need, his sensory panels fluttering madly.
“Damn,” Sideswipe breathes, and he closes his fingers around his spike, pumping furiously, striping himself at a rapid pace. “Damn, damn, damn -- hngh.” He grunts, curls forward, and the hot splashes of his release land on Prowl’s cheek, his bottom lip, his chin.
It feels like being marked, being claimed, and Prowl loves it.
“You two give the best shows,” Sunstreaker gasps as he hauls backward on Prowl’s hips, strong enough to pull him onto Sunstreaker’s spike, deep enough to jab at Prowl’s ceiling node and send a secondary jolt of pleasure through his valve.
It takes only a handful of thrusts before he overloads as well, splashing hot and sticky over Prowl’s sensitive nodes. He curls over Prowl, his field slamming down with affection and pleasure.
Hands cup his cheeks, Sideswipe drawing him up for a kiss, lapping up his own spill and sharing it between them, something Prowl would have found unpleasant once upon a time, but now sees it as an intimately erotic gesture.
“Don’t leave me out,” Sunstreaker says as he slips free and presses against Prowl from behind, trying to steal a kiss for himself.
“Wait your turn,” Sideswipe says against Prowl’s lips, with a needling chuckle that makes Prowl smile despite himself. Their bickering is a familiar comfort to him.
“I need a shower,” Prowl says as Sunstreaker steals him for a kiss and almost immediately, the twins start to scrap on a berth that barely fits all three of their frames, and certainly not three frames where two of them are wrestling.
Prowl extricates himself from the tumble and tangle of yellow and red armor. “You can fight or you can join me, your choice,” he says with a flick of his sensory panel and a deliberate step toward the washrack.
He smirks.
He doubts he’ll be alone for long.
Behind him, there’s a yelp, a shout of outrage, and the sound of two mechs scrambling to get off the berth as they give chase.
Exactly as he intended.
***
Universe: Transformers AU
Characters/Pairings: Prowl/Sideswipe/Sunstreaker, Optimus/Jazz, Megatron/Soundwave, Perceptor/Drift, Ratchet/Starscream, Autobot Ensemble, Decepticon Ensemble
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Interfacing, Angst, Moral and Ethical Quandries
Description: When Drift falls ill, a dive into his coding reveals a secret the Senate tried to bury, a secret that has altered the course of the war since before its inception. Burdened by the truth, the Autobots try their best to set things right, but in the process, Prowl is forced to face his own involvement in the matter – for better or for worse.
They might have gone on forever, fighting and killing and destroying, if it hadn’t been for Drift. They wouldn’t have found the virus; they wouldn’t have stopped to question. They’d have gone on and on, until there was nothing left but ashes.
If not for a single line of unusual code, they might have never stopped to think.
But Prowl’s getting ahead of himself.
It starts with Drift.
It starts with the Wreckers returning to the fold, landing a rickety ship in the docking bay of Ark-22, the outside scored with laserfire, impact marks, and centuries of hard use. It looks a few seconds away from collapsing on the spot.
The cargo ramp extends and drops with a rusty clatter, tilting off-balance to one side.
“Primus gotta be lookin’ out for them, if they’ve been survivin’ in that thing,” Jazz observes. His face is twisted into a horrified awe, and Prowl wonders if that’s the same look on his own face.
They, along with Ratchet, are the greeting party as Optimus is otherwise occupied with Ironhide and the newest intelligence, which suggests the Decepticons have constructed a new weapon of mass destruction. Weapons being Ironhide’s expertise, he’s poring over the stolen schematics with the kind of eager glee Prowl usually only sees in Wheeljack when caught in the rapture of a new invention.
“They should have rejoined us decades ago,” Prowl says as he notates the condition of the Xantium on his datapad. It will go in his report for Optimus. “What in the universe was Ultra Magnus thinking?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” Jazz says as Ratchet shoulder-checks him, pushing past with all the subtlety of a rampaging combiner, his gaze locked on the stretcher descending the ramp, carried between Top Spin and Twin Twist. Perceptor walks alongside it, fingers of one hand tangled with the patient, the other clutching a datapad.
“Come on, Ratch, that was rude,” Jazz calls after him, but it’s half-sparked at best.
Prowl cycles a vent and stows his datapad for now. Ultra Magnus precedes the stretcher with their injured party member, and his expression is grim. Then again, Ultra Magnus has always been something of a grim mech.
Prowl intercepts him. “Welcome aboard the Ark-22,” he greets, and the two of them exchange polite salutes -- matching rank to rank. “Welcome home, Ultra Magnus.”
“Or as close to home as we have these days,” Ultra Magnus replies with a brief nod. He offers one to Jazz as well. “Lucky you were so close.”
Jazz chuffs a ventilation. “That’s a pretty interesting word there. How the frag you keep that thing from falling out the sky?”
The corner of Ultra Magnus’ mouth lifts toward a smile. “Xantium’s more stable than she looks. We’ve snuck through quite a few blockades by looking worthless.”
“That’s pretty clever, Mags. Who came up with that one?” Jazz asks
“Who else, youngling? You think I’ve survived this long without learnin’ a trick or two?” Kup clatters up beside Ultra Magnus with a laziness to his stride that suggests he’s not even a quarter as dangerous as he actually is. “Taught this one everythin’ he knows.” He throws a thumb at Ultra Magnus.
Jazz chuckles. "Ya taught all of us, old mech." He swaggers forward and clasps hands with Kup. "Glad to see ya alive."
"Back atcha, Jazz. Surprised you ain't thrown yerself on a grenade yet." Kup's raspy laugh echoes in the cargo bay.
Prowl's sensory panels twitch. While it's good to see old friends alive after so long, there are more pressing matters. "What of your soldier?" he asks, trying to steer the conversation back on track. "The one who's ill?"
"Perceptor could probably tell you more about his symptoms," Ultra Magnus says, his tone shifting toward grave. "My understanding only goes as far as realizing we needed an expert's opinion."
"Otherwise you might not have sought us out?" Prowl asks, prodding gently. There's been a long-standing order for the Wreckers to return, though Optimus has never been keen on enforcing it.
Ultra Magnus gives him a long, hard look. "This war is no longer one to be won with grand battles and clashes, but small victories. If I'd thought it prudent to return to the front, I would have."
"Come on, mechs. We ain't startin' this now," Jazz says, sliding between them with his hands held up. "Optimus is waitin', and it looks like your crew could use some downtime. So let's focus on that, yeah?" His visor flashes in Prowl's direction with hard warning.
Prowl arches an orbital ridge. "Who's starting anything?" he asks, keeping his tone cool and controlled. "Optimus is in Tactical, if you'd like to follow me." He turns on a heelstrut, leaving it up to the others to follow, if they want.
He and Ultra Magnus have always had something of a strained relationship. Prowl can't pinpoint precisely why. They serve a different purpose, though they often share Optimus' left hand as Jazz firmly has possession of Optimus' right. Perhaps it's pride.
He'll need to be rid of that as soon as possible. Optimus needs their assistance, not their friction. The war drags ever on, and if there's any hope of seeing an end to it, Prowl and Ultra Magnus will have to work together.
It's as simple as that.
It's a familiar frame which comes into Ratchet's medbay.
Some of the lines and angles have changed. There is armor where they'd been minimum protoform and plating. The mech is armed, scarred, covered in weld lines that speak of battle, rather than hard living in the Dead End. But he's Drift all right.
Or Deadlock, as he'd taken to calling himself among the Decepticons.
According to his file, according to Perceptor, he's Drift once more. The circumstances of how and why are vague at best. Perceptor isn't offering details, if he knows them, and Drift isn't in a condition to explain either.
He's in stasis lock.
"I'm certain it's a coding issue," Perceptor says, and his voice has an edge of static, and his hands shake where he grips his datapad. "But I don't feel comfortable diving into his core matrix, and I don't have the permissions for the appropriate software anyway."
Ratchet is many things, but imperceptive is not one of them. It's been a long, long war. Indiscretions happen on both sides of the line. He is not without his own, after all.
He rests a hand over Perceptor's, feels the chill in Perceptor's armor, the tremble of worry and agitation in Perceptor's energy field. "How long?" Ratchet asks, careful to keep his tone gentle.
Perceptor's gaze is locked on his datapad. "The odd behavior started about a month before the glitching, and then-"
"No," Ratchet interrupts, and he squeezes Perceptor's hand, urges him to look up. "How long have you and Drift been together?"
Perceptor freezes. His gaze lifts achingly slow, and the worry in his field strengthens to an almost nauseating force of hinted fear. "Since he was Deadlock," he admits, and there's guilt in the way he worries at his bottom lip with his denta. "I saved his life once. The rest just... happened."
"As it so often does," Ratchet murmurs. He gives Perceptor's hand a little pat and returns his attention to his datapad. "I'm not going to judge. I just want to help Drift. Because I think you're right. This looks like a coding issue."
Perceptor vents, long and slow. "How long can he be in stasis lock before he..."
"That's the beauty of stasis lock. It's specifically designed to protect a mech's core components when there are issues. So long as the corrupted coding doesn't infiltrate his safe state, he'll be just fine." Ratchet offers a smile, though a part of him dreads the task awaiting him.
He hates coding issues. He's never been the best coder. There's a reason he's an effective battle medic, and it's not because he's good at coding.
Primus, but he wishes Shockwave were on their side. He's the best coder Ratchet can think of who's still functioning.
He'll have to the best he can on his own.
"Don't worry," Ratchet says, patting Perceptor on the shoulder. "We're going to figure this out. You're not going to lose him."
"Thank you, Ratchet."
He only hopes he's not telling Perceptor a lie.
"Yes, I'm aware Drift used to be a Decepticon," Ultra Magnus says with the first hint of annoyance to enter his tone. "He's not the first defector we've harbored, and I doubt he'll be the last."
Optimus lifts a hand before a sharp rebuttal manages to spill from Prowl. He cuts a look at his current second in command, and Prowl at least has the grace to look chastened.
The discussion, near an argument, has gone on long enough. While Optimus is happy to let his closest confidantes offer their points of view, there’s a time when discussion turns non-productive, and he has a feeling prodding this line of thought is heading that direction.
“Every defector we accept is one less Decepticon to fight,” Optimus says with a gravitas he tries to avoid, but finds it accomplishes more when his subordinates are arguing.
Again.
“Besides, that isn’t the point,” Optimus continues as all optics turn his direction while Prowl makes a note in his datapad. “We’re not here to discuss Drift’s background, but his health. Has anyone else displayed symptoms similar to his?”
Ultra Magnus lifts his chin. “You’re concerned this might be contagious. Perhaps a viral weapon of some sort.”
“The thought did cross my mind,” Ironhide comments as he rubs his chin, engine rumbling with realization. “Not sayin’ Drift woulda done it intentional-like, but ya know how crafty the Cons can be sometimes.”
Prowl makes a non-committal noise. “That is also a concern, yes.”
“If anyone was going to be infected next, it’d be Perceptor, but he’s fine,” Kup says with a roll of his shoulders. “Whatever’s going on, it’s just Drift.”
Prowl frowns.
Optimus raps his fingers on the table, contemplating. “His symptoms? Your report was vague.”
“Agitation. Anger. Aggression.” Ultra Magnus shifts in his chair, fatigue wreathing his frame, his armor creaking. “At first, we thought he was struggling to adjust to life among the Autobots, but it continued to worsen. When the seizures began, we started to suspect a medical reason for his misbehavior.”
“Seizures?” Optimus echoes. He leans forward, worry worming into his spark.
Kup shakes his head. “Look, I ain’t a medic, Prime. All I know is one moment Drift’s in the brig for assaulting Whirl -- which lemme tell you, was probably provoked -- and the next thing we know, he’s flailing about the floor, spitting sparks and screaming.”
Optimus winces.
Prowl’s stylus stops moving, and he slowly lifts a gaze toward Ultra Magnus and Kup, opposite the table from him. “And you’re certain it wasn’t a ploy?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think it’s possible to falsely put oneself into stasis lock,” Ultra Magnus says, his tone so tight and cold, Optimus feels the iciness of it.
“Besides, what would be the point?” Kup asks.
Prowl puts down his datapad and pinches the bridge of his nasal structure. “A medical need outstripping the capability of your onboard professionals would necessitate a return to the nearest fully-staffed facility -- which happens to be this one.” His sensory panels flick sharply, and his field surges through the room with a hint of chastisement. “The Ark-22 is known to house Autobot senior leadership, and is the perfect target for a viral attack, whether by the knowledge of its carrier or not.”
Silence.
Optimus vents, long and slow.
Prowl’s right, of course. They’ve all been so focused with concern over one of their subordinates, over someone Perceptor cares so deeply for, that they’ve neglected to consider the more nefarious implications.
“He’s in quarantine,” Jazz offers up, but his engine revs, and his visor flashes. He’s almost out of his chair, like he wants to jet down to medbay and pull every Autobot medic and scientist out of Drift’s room.
“With the most skilled medic in the Autobot army, our weapons engineer, and a scientific genius,” Prowl says quietly, but if he was the type to say ‘I told you so’, Optimus knows he’d be shouting the words.
Prowl shifts, coughs into his palm. “I am not suggesting we should deny Drift medical care, or that the better course of action would have been to ignore his plight. Neither am I suggesting that he’s a spy or a plant. I’m merely stating the possible consequences.”
Silence again.
Optimus cycles a long ventilation. He rubs his forehead, feeling an ache building behind his optics. “Is there anyway to determine whether Drift’s current state is a danger to the rest of us?”
“Only Ratch can answer that,” Jazz says, and his frown deepens, far from the jovial grin he usually tries to keep. “I mean, I can take a peek at whatever Ratch finds, but if Drift’s some kind of carrier, it’s too late.”
“Damn,” Ironhide mutters, and though no one echoes it aloud, the sentiment is shared by everyone in the room, Optimus included.
“All we can do is brace ourselves then.” Optimus lifts his head, his chin, drawing strength around him like a mantle, because it’s what his mechs need from him. “Keep Drift in quarantine as much as we can. Determine the cause of his illness as soon as possible, and deal with the repercussions as they appear.”
He exchanges a knowing glance with Jazz, who lifts his head in acknowledgment. Before the meeting is over, someone from Special Operations will be keeping an optic on the medbay and its occupants. And until Drift is cured and his illness determined, there will never be a moment he’s not under unbiased observation.
There are times it’s a little frightening how well Jazz understands him. How well they understand each other.
“Now,” Optimus says, shifting to get a bit more comfortable and hopefully, shift the mood of the meeting. “There are other topics, I think, we should put on the table. Ironhide, if you would, please?”
Ironhide grunts and slaps a datapad down on the table. “Yeah, so this is what we think the Cons have cookin’ up now…”
Battle tactics, improvised weaponry, and troop movements -- these at least, Optimus is confident he and his team can handle. As for the rest, they can only wait and see.
“I hear there’s a Decepticon in our midst.”
Prowl snorts without looking up from his datapad. “Former Decepticon, to hear them tell it,” he says and makes another notation. Ratchet’s preliminary findings suggest Drift’s sickness is contained to Drift himself, but he’s not ready to sign off on that being a certainty. “Sunstreaker, you’ve encountered him before if I recall correctly.”
“Deadlock,” Sunstreaker says, and Prowl can hear the sneer in his voice, even if he hasn’t looked up to acknowledge his visitors. “That’s one mech I’d never thought would defect. Word has it he and Megatron are close.”
“Like the berth kind of close,” Sideswipe says, and there’s a noisy rattling-thump as he drops down in one of Prowl’s chair with an uncaring flop. “Then again, maybe Megatron is a selfish lover. I’d defect for that.”
Sideswipe’s leering. Prowl doesn’t have to look to know he’s leering. He can feel the leer being directed at him.
“Idiot,” Sunstreaker says, but it’s fond, even as he cuffs his brother on the back of the head. “Be serious for a minute.”
“I am being serious.”
“Do you think he’s a danger?” Prowl asks.
“We’re all dangerous, Prowl,” Sunstreaker says.
“That’s not what he’s asking, Sunny,” Sideswipe retorts, and there’s a dull thwack as he punches Sunstreaker in the hip, prompting a scowl from his twin. “If he’s a double-agent, it would be a smart move. Ratchet has a past with him. Perceptor has a present with him. But Deadlock wasn’t exactly known for being subtle. Get me?”
Prowl makes another scribbled notation and finally looks up. Sunstreaker’s glaring at an unrepentant Sideswipe, both of their armor fluffed, and this is either going to end up in a wrestling match in Prowl’s office, or a wrestling match on the berth later.
Sunstreaker stiffly sits in the other chair and puts a great effort into ignoring his twin. “Megatron would sooner shoot a mech he thinks is fraternizing than try and use that to his advantage,” he says with that unique insight few often get to see from him. “Drift’s sincere, if you ask me. Perceptor seems to think so.”
“Perceptor thinks he’s in love with him. Of course he’d believe Drift,” Sideswipe says with derision ripe in his tone. Prowl isn’t sure if it’s because of Sideswipe’s aversion to the idea of ‘love’ and its weakness, or if it’s because he’s averse to Drift or Perceptor or both.
Sometimes, Sideswipe is the more complicated of the two. He holds his emotions close to his spark, while Sunstreaker has no filter.
Sunstreaker shoots his brother another look Prowl can’t decipher, and he suspects it’s because they’re talking over their bond, as they often do. He waits them out, contemplating a return to his paperwork, before their attention redirects to him.
“Your shift is over,” Sideswipe says, blunt.
“It was over two hours ago,” Sunstreaker points out. “Ultra Magnus is here now. You can share the load. You need to take a break.”
Prowl cycles a ventilation, schools his expression into one of patience. “Their arrival necessitates the shuffling of duties and responsibilities. There is a lot of work left to do.”
“It can wait until tomorrow.” Sunstreaker’s jaw sets, a look of stubbornness writ into his expression, and one on one, the twins are a formidable foe.
Together, they are nearly unbeatable.
Prowl’s resolve crumbles.
There’s an ache in his backstrut, a clench in his tanks, a concern wrapping around his spark. He’s working on data because anxiety has twisted itself into a knot inside of him, and waiting for the verdict on Drift has him on edge. How perfect, then, is a distraction in the shape of his two very handsome lovers.
“Ratch even said he won’t have much of an answer for three whole shifts,” Sideswipe says, and there’s a devilish grin on his face, a perky flicker of his armor as there always is, when he’s tormenting one of his favorite mechs on the ship.
Ratchet has the dubious honor of being one such mech, though the fact that he’s made himself pseudo-caretaker toward the twins means any irritation Sideswipe causes him is his own fault.
Sunstreaker rises and circles the desk. Prowl feels a bit like prey, trapped as he is with the predator approaching him.
“Come,” Sunstreaker says, rather than wheedles, and he leans in close, shiny and freshly washed and waxed. “Your paint is atrocious.”
“You say the sweetest things,” Sideswipe says with a roll of his optics, but he’s sitting back in his own chair with a look of absolute determination in his face.
It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve bodily hauled him out of his office, wrestled him into a washrack, and coaxed him into the berth with sweet kisses. Sometimes, Prowl enjoys the struggle as much as he enjoys giving in.
“Sideswipe made treats,” Sunstreaker adds as he cups Prowl’s jaw, brushing a thumb over his bottom lip. “But you can’t have any if you don’t take a break.”
Prowl aims for a stern look, but his twitching sensory panels betray him. “I am confused about who the superior officer is here,” he says, but he leans into Sunstreaker’s touch, feeling the exhaustion in his backstrut, and the anxiety gnawing on his cortex.
Sideswipe snorts. “It’s definitely not you.” He shoves to his feet and sweeps the datapads off Prowl’s desk -- he’s learned by now how Prowl stacks his work by order of priority.
“No, it’s not,” Sunstreaker murmurs in agreement, and his mouth falls over Prowl’s, deliciously gentle and corrupting, and Prowl has no hope to concentrate on work now. Not with the taste of Sunstreaker on his lips, and the promise in the kiss.
“No more work tonight,” Prowl agrees.
He’ll table his worries for now. He has twins to snuggle.
He supposes he can table his worries for now. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe deserve his attention as well, and he doesn't want to neglect them. He cares for them too much for that.
So he lets them coax him from his office with gentle caresses and warm kisses that taste of stolen high grade and wheedled energon candies. Or perhaps fresh made. Sideswipe considers himself something of a chemist, and Prowl has done his best to encourage that, though delicately. Encourage too much and Sideswipe will quit on principle alone.
Back in Prowl's quarters, their shared quarters truth be told, as he can't remember the last time they slept in the soldier barracks, the lights stay low and intimate.
"If we turn on the lights, you might think it permission to turn on your work console," Sideswipe says as he tugs Prowl toward the berth with heat in his optics.
That they desire him enough to put in such effort will never cease to amaze and humble Prowl. He knows they fear he is out of their league, but truth be told, Prowl knows they deserve much better than a mech like him, a mech who works too much, who holds his emotions too close, who can barely string three words of affection together.
"And we can't have that," Sunstreaker says, already waiting with arms open to receive Prowl as Sideswipe guides him into reach. "Mm. There you are," he murmurs and pulls Prowl down into another kiss, his hands sweeping hungry patterns over Prowl's armor.
The berth creaks as Sideswipe joins them with a little bounce. "Any preferences tonight?" he asks as he stretches out in the bare space behind Sunstreaker, panels open, fingers stroking over his array in obvious invitation.
Prowl's mouth goes dry with want. He licks his lips. "I would taste you," he says, in answer to Sideswipe, and he catches Sunstreaker's gaze. "If you'll have me at the same time."
A shiver runs through Sunstreaker's armor. His optics darken with hunger. "Always," he says, and seizes Prowl into another kiss, this one more fierce and claiming, his hands gripping Prowl's aft and squeezing.
"Nnn. Sunny, don't hog him," Sideswipe whines as the berth shifts again. He pulls himself up, leaning against the wall, but leaving plenty of room for Prowl to slide between his legs, put his mouth over a spike hard and slick with pre-fluid, or slide his tongue over a valve bright and blinking readily.
"Patience," Sunstreaker says, without looking, as he presses his forehead to Prowl's, sharing a conspiratorial grin. He slides his hands around the curve of Prowl's aft. "Should we make him wait longer?"
Prowl chuckles quietly. "He'll start without us."
Certainly enough, there's a quiet moan and the slick sound of Sideswipe stroking himself, fingers caressing the rim of his valve and flirting over his nodes.
"He's such a brat," Sunstreaker murmurs, but he steals another kiss before releasing Prowl to tend to their impatient third.
"A badge I wear with pride," Sideswipe declares as Prowl eases his way across the berth and between Sideswipe's knees. "Come here, beautiful," he says and pulls Prowl into a kiss, which puts him off-balance, but it's worth it for the warm press of Sideswipe's mouth to his.
Beautiful, he says, but Prowl's not sure he believes it. Maybe finds it a little easier since they say it so often and with such sincerity, but he looks at himself compared to the dual beauty that the twins are, and he wonders how they can call him such, when they can see themselves.
Sunstreaker's hands fall on the back of Prowl's sensory panels, fingers sweeping over and around, finding every spot that fills him with heat and makes him tingle. It all pools southward, gathering hot and heavy in his groin, and his panels spiral open, freeing his array to the open air, the caress of Sunstreaker's fingers.
Prowl groans against Sideswipe's mouth as Sunstreaker strokes slippery-wet over Prowl's anterior node, and drags his fingers over Prowl's swollen pleats, spreading his lubricant around.
"In me," Prowl demands, over his shoulder, need growing inside of him. They always make him feel so open and wanton, like he's free to express his wants. Encouraged, even, because their arousal magnifies tenfold when he asks anything of them.
Sideswipe strokes a thumb over his bottom lip. "Still want to give me this?"
Prowl licks the tip of his thumb in answer, then shifts down, down, down, until his mouth hovers over the wet tip of Sideswipe's spike, rigid and full with arousal. The smell of his need floods Prowl's receptors. Arousal throbs heavy and deep in his system.
He takes Sideswipe into his mouth, tonguing the head first, probing the channel slit with his glossa, before swallowing him.
Sideswipe groans and cradles Prowl's head. The hungry weight of Sideswipe’s gaze falls on Prowl -- Sideswipe likes to watch -- and when he looks up, their optics meet, Sideswipe's dark with desire.
Prowl's face heats. Perhaps because of Sideswipe's rapt attention, or perhaps because Sunstreaker's fingers have been insistent over his valve, stroking and plucking and driving him to distraction. Prowl makes an urgent noise, a frustrated sound, pushing back into the cradle of Sunstreaker's hips, where a wet spike brushes his aft.
"Now who's the one being impatient?" Sideswipe teases as he strokes Prowl's cheeks, his hips rocking ever so gently into Prowl's mouth.
Prowl glares at him.
Sideswipe's smile widens. "Better hurry, Sunny, before he decides to bite my spike in retaliation."
Oh, but the temptation.
Sunstreaker chuckles quietly, but he obeys, his lubricant-sticky fingers cradling Prowl's aft as his spike nudges Prowl's valve. Prowl widens his knees, rocks back, and moans as Sunstreaker pierces him, achingly slow, filling his valve inch by inch. Prowl's elbows dig into the berth, his hands cradle Sideswipe's hips, and he vocalizes around Sideswipe's spike.
Their fields swell, tingling with heat and desire. They wrap him up in it. Prowl sinks into the pleasure as if its the easiest thing in the world.
Their rhythm is easy. Practiced. Familiar. The twins work together in this as well as they work elsewhere. As Sunstreaker sinks forward, Sideswipe rocks his hips upward, and they slide into him at the same moment. Prowl moans around Sideswipe's spike, pleasure throbbing through his array.
"Primus, you're gorgeous," Sideswipe groans, his optics wide as he holds Prowl's face, thumbs stroking his cheeks, watching the slide of himself into Prowl's mouth.
Prowl shivers, and Sunstreaker strokes deep into him, hips circling to ensure he caresses every one of Prowl’s inner nodes. His hand paints a pattern over Prowl’s sensory panels, while the other slides beneath him, curling around his spike in a firm grip. He strokes Prowl perfectly, warm and squeezing with that little twist that never fails to make lightning crawl up Prowl’s spinal strut.
He groans, long and low, around Sideswipe’s spike, and is rewarded with a sharp vent, a little buck of Sideswipe’s hips. His spike throbs on Prowl’s glossa, pre-fluid beading thick and sticky down Prowl’s intake.
Prowl takes him deeper, lips stretched around the girth of him. He wants to taste Sideswipe’s pleasure and know it’s because of something he’s done, while Sunstreaker’s pace picks up, pushing harder and faster into him, making his nodes sing.
It’s a blur of pleasure, of touch and noise, vents and cooling fans, a litany of moans and gasps, and Sideswipe’s ongoing commentary, encouraging his twin, Prowl, speaking lewd things to make Prowl’s audials heat, but his internals spark with desire. He goes languid between them, letting Sideswipe guide his mouth, and Sunstreaker hold him in place for each deep stroke. It’s easy to abandon his control to them, let them set the pace, offer his trust.
He knows, by now, they won’t betray it. Trust, to them, is a precious and fragile thing. Prowl is damn lucky to have earned theirs, and he’s handed his own back in return.
Primus, he loves them.
Overload hits him hard and fierce and sudden. Prowl stills, ecstasy sweeping through his frame, Sideswipe falling from his lips as he arches back into Sunstreaker’s grip. His valve clenches, his spike spurts a mess on the berth, and his field flashes through the room with a bonfire of need, his sensory panels fluttering madly.
“Damn,” Sideswipe breathes, and he closes his fingers around his spike, pumping furiously, striping himself at a rapid pace. “Damn, damn, damn -- hngh.” He grunts, curls forward, and the hot splashes of his release land on Prowl’s cheek, his bottom lip, his chin.
It feels like being marked, being claimed, and Prowl loves it.
“You two give the best shows,” Sunstreaker gasps as he hauls backward on Prowl’s hips, strong enough to pull him onto Sunstreaker’s spike, deep enough to jab at Prowl’s ceiling node and send a secondary jolt of pleasure through his valve.
It takes only a handful of thrusts before he overloads as well, splashing hot and sticky over Prowl’s sensitive nodes. He curls over Prowl, his field slamming down with affection and pleasure.
Hands cup his cheeks, Sideswipe drawing him up for a kiss, lapping up his own spill and sharing it between them, something Prowl would have found unpleasant once upon a time, but now sees it as an intimately erotic gesture.
“Don’t leave me out,” Sunstreaker says as he slips free and presses against Prowl from behind, trying to steal a kiss for himself.
“Wait your turn,” Sideswipe says against Prowl’s lips, with a needling chuckle that makes Prowl smile despite himself. Their bickering is a familiar comfort to him.
“I need a shower,” Prowl says as Sunstreaker steals him for a kiss and almost immediately, the twins start to scrap on a berth that barely fits all three of their frames, and certainly not three frames where two of them are wrestling.
Prowl extricates himself from the tumble and tangle of yellow and red armor. “You can fight or you can join me, your choice,” he says with a flick of his sensory panel and a deliberate step toward the washrack.
He smirks.
He doubts he’ll be alone for long.
Behind him, there’s a yelp, a shout of outrage, and the sound of two mechs scrambling to get off the berth as they give chase.
Exactly as he intended.
