[TF] Four-Topper

[dracoqueen22]

Title: Four Topper
Universe: IDW AU, The Perfect Storm ‘Verse
Characters: Ricochet/Blurr, Bluestreak/Jazz
Rated: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Threesome, Foursome, Twincest, Double Penetration
Description: There’s nothing better than when the four of them get together for a good, old-fashioned double-date night. Jazz, however, has an ulterior motive this time, one that’ll get all four of his favorite mechs right where he wants them: in the berth.

There's a pleasantly warm buzz in his tanks, and a lightness in his spark, but most of all, there's a low coil of heat in his groin. The longer he sits here, almost in Bluestreak's lap, with his brother nearby, and one of his favorite interface partners within reach, the more the heat grows, and the wetter he gets behind his panels.

Jazz really does have the best ideas. He's just got to get everyone on the same page, and it's going to be a night none of them will forget for a long time.

He has all the pieces in place: plenty of Engex on the table, the two bits down for the night with the sparkling monitor in clear view of all adults present, trays of treats to tantalize and best of all, his favorite mechs all within reach. Jazz cuddles up to Bluestreak, occasionally kissing his cheek or accidentally-on-purpose brushing his fingers over Bluestreak's sensory panels, or resting his hand lightly on Bluestreak's thigh.

"I know what you're doing," Bluestreak murmurs while Ricochet and Blurr quietly bicker, mostly about which brand of engex is better with the treats.

"Do you?" Jazz asks with a nip to the curve of Bluestreak's jaw. "Mebbe I just like you so much I can't stop touching you."

Bluestreak rests a hand on his knee, squeezing, his field warm and syrupy and as heavy with intent as Jazz’s own. "That's also true."

"Then I'm not doin' anything unusual." Jazz offers his best innocent smile and bright-visored stare. It’s a sure-fire success for anyone who is not Bluestreak, and has a fifty-fifty chance of working now.

"I'm going to get more engex," Ricochet announces as he stands and swipes the empty decanter from the table.

"Get the Kalisian one," Blurr says as he sits back into the couch, looking a bit disgruntled, but that's pretty common when he and Ricochet bicker.

"Nope." Ricochet saunters into their storage.

Blurr scowls. He looks like he needs a distraction, something to wipe that frown from his face, as enticing as that frown might be.

Now is as good a time as any.

Jazz finishes off his engex, sets it on the table, and leverages himself from the chair. Bluestreak gives him a curious look, but Jazz ignores it. Someone has to get this party started, and who better than Jazz?

"That expression doesn't suit the party," Jazz says as he invites himself into Blurr's lap, sliding his arms over his favorite Racer's shoulders and toying with the empty booster mounts. "What has my brother done now?"

"Nothing more than usual." Blurr cocks his head, gives him a look. "What are you up to?"

"Why do people keep asking me that?" Jazz brushes his lips over the curve of Blurr's jaw and considers it a victory when Blurr doesn’t immediatley pull away from him. "Been awhile since we played together. Seems a shame to waste this opportunity."

Blurr playfully slides his fingers along the seam of Jazz’s hips, teasing the cables beneath. "So that's your angle, is it?" His gaze slants to the right, as though checking in with Bluestreak, before he grins up at Jazz. "What are you looking for?"

“I know that brother of mine plays coy with his valve.” Jazz twists his hips in a slow circle, a dance purely of his own design. “You could enjoy mine for a bit.”

Blurr’s field slips free of his control, and a flush of hungry heat smacks into Jazz. He barely manages to swallow a smirk of satisfaction. It’s not as much fun as twisting the Decepticons to his own ends, but it’s still a good time.

“Open up,” Blurr says as his panel loudly pops. His spike grinds against Jazz’s valve cover, half-pressurized and filling quickly with each passing second.

Jazz grins and steals Blurr’s mouth for a wet kiss, tasting the spicy engex on his glossa. He rolls his hips forward, grinding down on Blurr’s spike before he finally allows Blurr to sink inside of him. They both groan, Jazz shuddering as his sensory lining sings from the stimulation.

He knows Bluestreak is watching them, and that makes it all the sweeter.

“How hard can I have you?” Blurr asks against his lips, hands guiding Jazz, keeping him in place for a satisfactory grind.

“As hard as you want, Speedy.” Jazz smirks and nips on the curve of Blurr’s jaw, feeling the weight of his partner’s gaze between his shoulders. “Harder if you can.”

Blurr chuckles, and he briefly glances past Jazz as though checking in again, before he plants his feet on the ground and thrusts up, hard.

Jazz moans, charge licking out from his substructure, his valve spilling lubricant. What he and Bluestreak has is the best, but there’s something to be said for a little variety.

Blurr knows how to use his spike and his -- hnngh -- Jazz breaks off into a groan as Blurr nips at his intake, the perfect pressure not to leave a mark but still give him a delicious jolt.

He sinks down, taking Blurr deeper, grinding his anterior nub on a rise in Blurr's armor. Jazz shivers, talons sinking into Blurr's seams, drawing a hiss from his favorite Racer.

"Watch the claws," he says.

Jazz chuckles. "Afraid I'm goin' to leave a mark?"

Blurr yanks him down, shoving deep. Jazz moans, head tilting back, shifting the angle of Blurr inside him to rake along a sensory cluster. Pleasure pops through his lines in a staticky crackle.

"Ohh, right there," Jazz gasps, his claws sinking deeper, making Blurr jerk and throb. Protest all he likes, but Blurr's been with Ricochet too long to pretend he doesn't like a bit of pain with his pleasure.

"Brat," Blurr breathes, but his optics are bright and hungry, his glossa flicking over his lips.

Jazz huffs a laugh. "And you're not?"

"Shut up." Blurr kisses him again, hard and hungry, and Jazz moans into the kiss, giving as good as he gets, and on the edge of his awareness, a tickling sensation of his twin tells him he's finally struck gold.

~

They are out of Kalisian.

They've been out of Kalisian for a week now, but Blurr is convinced there's a bottle hidden in here somewhere, despite the fact neither of them can seem to find it.

Ricochet dutifully pretends to look for another bottle of Kalisian while grabbing two bottles of Praxian Blue, plus another tray of treats because Blurr secretly wants them, even though he won't admit it aloud. He's been consuming a lot more lately, probably to make up for the fact he’s been training so much, all in preparation for the reopened racing circuit.

Ricochet bumps the cabinet shut with his hip, tucks one bottle under his arm, grabs the other, and balances the treats with his free hand. He pops his head into the bitlet's rooms. Both Echo and Rebound snooze away with no worries, so Ricochet continues. They've got the portable monitor but still... always better to lay optics straight on.

He heads back into the main room, and his awareness immediately prickles as he catches the scent of lubricant, the sound of two frames sliding together, and the low moans of two mechs engaged in pleasure. Oh, and the fact he can outright see his twin riding his partner like a mech starved for attention.

Bluestreak sits nearby, head cocked, one hand cupped around a cube, watching the two of them with thinly concealed arousal brimming in his optics.

Ricochet puts the two bottles and the tray on the table.

"What'd I miss?" he asks, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the very erotic show before him. It's a rare treat to see two of his favorite mechs engaged like this.

His spike immediately twitches.

Bluestreak takes a long drink of his engex before he sets the now-empty cube aside. "I'm starting to think Jazz had an ulterior motive in arranging this party tonight."

Ricochet barks a laugh and leans a hip against Bluestreak's chair. "Yeah, I should've guessed." He crosses his arms, openly admiring the dance of Jazz's hips, the slick between where the two are joined, Blurr's spike plunging up into Jazz's valve. "This bother you?"

"If it did, I wouldn't be with Jazz in the first place," Bluestreak murmurs, and yeah, that's a fair point.

Besides, Ricochet can smell it. Bluestreak's face might be one of polite interest, but his optics are bright, and arousal floats off him in waves. He's watching their respective partners as though he wants to eat them both.

Ricochet can sympathize. His spike is feeling mighty neglected at the moment.

"It's a free show," he agrees, and idly palms his spike panel, shoving the heel of his palm against it, rocking up into the pressure.

Shame? Why bother with that?

"It is.” Bluestreak’s glossa sweeps over his lips, before he looks up at Ricochet with a smirk. "But I don't remember giving either of them permission, do you?"

Ricochet grins and straightens. "You're right. We didn't."

Something should be done about that.

Both Blurr and Jazz are far too involved to notice Ricochet stalking toward them. Or theycould be pretending not to notice, the mischievous brats. It's too easy to grab Jazz by the hips, lift him off Blurr mid-thrust and throw his brother over his shoulder.

"I didn't say you could have my mate," Ricochet says with a echoing slap to Jazz's aft.

Jazz tries to squirm free, his legs kicking, but Ricochet has an iron grip. He lands another spank to his brother's aft, ignoring the trickles of lubricant that spatter on his chestplate.

"Fragger!" Jazz hisses, squirming in a vain attempt to unbalance Ricochet. "I was so close."

Ricochet ignores him, winks at Blurr, and strides away with his prize, who's field is a volcanic mix of irritation and lust and excitement. Such a contrary thing is his brother.

"Next time, you should ask then." Ricochet beelines for the berthroom and dumps his brother on the bed.

Jazz lands with a little bounce and immediately tries to scramble to his feet, but Ricochet shoves a hand against his chassis and pins him back down.

"No." Ricochet plunges two fingers into Jazz's dripping valve, which immediately clamps down on him, rippling with desperation.

Jazz glares at him, hissing through gritted denta, simultaneously bucking up on Ricochet's fingers and squirming beneath his hand. "If you don't get a spike in me, I'm going to claw your intake out, then see what happens," he snarls.

Ricochet chuckles. "You're so cute when you're angry."

Those talons, however, might be a problem. Jazz does have them bared, and he has clawed at Ricochet before. He doesn't want to spend half the morning with a bottle of filler.

Jazz seethes, and Ricochet flips him over, on his hands and knees, at a perfect height for Ricochet to rail him into the berth without getting clawed. He snatches Jazz's hips, yanks him back, and between one vent and the next, thrusts into Jazz, bottoming out in one stroke.

Jazz moans, his claws sinking into the berthcover. His back arches as he pushes back, grinding down on Ricochet's spike, his field filling the room with a volcanic, crackling need. His valve is hot and wet, and Ricochet groans, holding his brother in place for a satisfying grind.

He doesn't know if Jazz is going to learn his lesson, but damn if half the fun isn't in the trying.

~

"He didn't bring the Kalisian."

Blurr scowls as he stands, lubricant painting his groin and upper thighs, his spike throbbing in denied pleasure.

"And he stole my berthpartner." Blurr huffs.

Bluestreak chuckles and lifts one of the bottles, examining the label in depth. "This is Praxian Blue. It's not a bad blend."

"Yeah, but it's not what I asked for. I swear he does this slag on purpose." Blurr frowns and looks down at himself, his rigid spike painted in Jazz's lubricant, throbbing with unfulfilled desire. "Aft."

Bluestreak sets the bottle back down. "To be fair, this is Jazz's fault. I knew he was up to something, but as perceptive as I am, he still knows how to hide things from me."

"I'm not complaining." Blurr heads for the berthroom and the sound of Ricochet and Jazz going at it, as they do. "It's just second-nature to be irritated with Ricochet."

Bluestreak chuckles and follows, the both of them pausing in the doorway to watch Jazz get fragged into the berth, his face pressed into the mattress, thighs splayed wide. Ricochet has one hand on Jazz's hips, pulling him back into each thrust, and the other is between Jazz's shoulders, pinning him down. Jazz's spike bobs with every thrust, pearls of pre-fluid dripping down, staining the blanket beneath him.

"I'm going to have to get that professionally laundered once the night is done," Blurr sighs. "They both owe me."

Bluestreak makes a non-committal noise, and when Blurr looks at him, the other mech's gaze is firmly locked on the twins. His arms are crossed, head tilted, like he's reading a battlefield for the next best move.

"Is Ricochet that rough with you?" Bluestreak asks, though his voice is quieter, like he doesn't want their partners to hear.

Blurr chuffs a vent. "Absolutely not." He gives Bluestreak an askance look. "Are you that rough with Jazz?"

"No." Bluestreak's shoulders twitch. "Perhaps that's where I'm going wrong."

Blurr tilts his head. "Does it bother you Jazz isn't completely yours?"

"The part of him that he can give belongs to me entirely," Bluestreak says, but his optics narrow as he watches them, and his engine gives the tiniest rev. "Just as much as there's a part of him no one but Ricochet can have. So, no. It doesn't."

Blurr sucks on his bottom lip. "I don't want Ricochet to be that rough, and he never asks for it, because we both know what he and Jazz get from each other is not something he's going to get from me."

"Yeah, exactly."

"That being said...." Blurr sidles closer to Bluestreak, whose attention is focused on him now, a bit like predator tracking playful prey. "Why should they have all the fun?"

Bluestreak's orbital ridges lift toward the ceiling. "That's a good question." He grins. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't think you were hot."

"You're not so bad yourself." Blurr puts a palm on Bluestreak's chassis, and hums when he feels the heat answering him. It's a great sign. "And you'll officially be my favorite if you let me have an overload."

"If I let you should be the key word here," Bluestreak murmurs.

Blurr laughs and leans up, kissing Bluestreak for the first time in all their years of knowing one another. It's different from kissing Jazz, from kissing Ricochet, Bluestreak doesn't yield, but he doesn't push either. He coaxes, like every action should be a seduction.

His glossa strokes over Blurr's as he curves an arm around Blurr's waist, tugging him closer. His other hand cups Blurr's jaw, thumb stroking over his chin before he pulls back from the kiss with a smirk.

"This is going to be fun," Bluestreak says as Blurr's spike nudges against his armor, leaving a smear of pre-fluid behind. His engine idles with restrained need.

"Fun is what I'm about, Blue," Blurr says. "And don't worry. You can be a little pushy. I'm not Jazz, but I do like a little push."

"Yeah, I can tell." Bluestreak strokes his thumb over Blurr's bottom lip. "You wanna suck me off?"

Blurr's insides flipflop with unexpected arousal. Bluestreak had asked, but there'd been an echo of command in his tone which did unexpected things to Blurr's knees. They wobble.

He groans, hips rocking against Bluestreak, and he flicks his glossa over Bluestreak's thumb. "I do."

"Then get to it," Bluestreak murmurs, and there's just enough command in his voice to make Blurr shiver.

He drops to his knees before he fully makes the decision to do so, his hands cradling Bluestreak's hips, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the heat of Bluestreak's closed panel. He groans as Bluestreak strokes over his crest before Bluestreak's panel opens with a click, his spike emerging, already wet at the tip and rapidly pressurizing.

Bluestreak's got some kind of control. Blurr's a little bit envious.

Oh, well.

This is the part Blurr's good at it, so he takes Bluestreak into his mouth, strokes Bluestreak's spike with his glossa, and swallows him down, inch by precious inch, until his nasal ridge bumps against Bluestreak's array housing. Above him, Bluestreak full-frame shivers, his hand closing around Blurr's crest.

"I may have underestimated you a little," Bluestreak says with a low groan.

Blurr smirks.

He’s not Jazz, but there’s a reason Ricochet sticks around his berth, and Blurr intends to show Bluestreak just how good he is.

~

Jazz fragging loves it when a plan comes together.

He moans as Ricochet drives into him harder, shoving him into the berth, his valve clenching as his spikehead grinds against the soft silk of the berthcovers. He fists the fabric, pleasure sparking up inside of him like fireworks.

"You are such a brat," Ricochet hisses as he thrusts again and again, sharp and deep, grinding on Jazz's ceiling node until his vision fritzes with static.

"Love you, too," Jazz gasps and turns his head to spit out a mouthful of fabric. He's got little leverage like this, but he doesn't care. It's a frustrating friction on his spike, and that temptation of something more but not enough sends charge licking over his armor.

There's movement in his peripheral vision. Jazz's visor flickers, tries to zero in on it while his brother attempts to frag his processor into reset, and he gasps with renewed arousal.

Blurr's on his knees, mouth wrapped around Bluestreak's spike, and damn if that isn't the prettiest thing Jazz has seen in a good long while.

"I'm fragging brilliant," Jazz gasps as sparks dance behind his visor. He tries to get his knees beneath him, to push back into his brother's thrusts, but Ricochet's grip is iron-clad, and Jazz is completely at his mercy.

Just the way he likes it.

~

Bluestreak has always been aware of how sexy Blurr is. It's sort of a given. Blurr had all the best frame designers, the best paintjobs, the best of everything. He's crafted, from top to bottom, to be something mechs desire.

Knowing Blurr is sexy, however, doesn't so much compare to the reality of how fragging hot he is. Down on his knees, his mouth wrapped around Bluestreak's spike, it leaves him a little dizzy with the reality of it.

His former boss is really fragging sexy. Not as much as Jazz, no, never. But it's a different kind of intoxicating. Especially given how readily he yields to the smallest request. He doesn't fight, but cedes himself to Bluestreak's control, and that's the sexiest bit of him.

Also, Bluestreak does not know what trick Blurr is doing with his glossa and his intake, but he needs to teach it to Jazz as soon as possible. He's actually testing Bluestreak's control, and that just won't do.

He grips Blurr's crest with barely any force and says, "Enough. Berth," and hopes his voice doesn't come out as shaky as his knees feel.

Blurr backs off with a lewd slurp, and his lips curve in a very Jazz-like smirk. He looks over his shoulder, where Jazz and Ricochet are fragging like there's no tomorrow. "It's a good thing we splurged on a bigger berth."

"Yeah, it is," Bluestreak agrees, and hauls Blurr to his feet, stealing a kiss that tastes of himself
before he backs Blurr toward the berth. "I'm sure it was all part of Jazz's plan."

Blurr licks his lips, a bit swollen from his efforts, and part of Bluestreak thinks he should've just let him continue. Though he supposes that wouldn't have been very fair to Blurr, who was already left hanging thanks to the terror twins.

"Probably," Blurr says as his knees hit the berth and tumbles backward onto it, legs splaying in obvious invitation, his valve wet and open and calling to Bluestreak's spike. Just like his fingers, which reach for his valve before Bluestreak grabs both Blurr’s hands and pins them to the berth.

"No, sir," Bluestreak says as he nudges himself between Blurr's thighs, but keeps a tight grip on Blurr's wrists. "That's my job now, boss."

Blurr groans. "Don't call me that."

"Why?" Bluestreak chuckles as he leans closer, feathering a kiss along the curve of Blurr's jaw. "Because you should be using it for me as long as we're on this berth?"

Blurr flushes, the heat of it radiating from his face, and Bluestreak can barely conceal his delight. No wonder Ricochet is so taken with him.

"Shut up," Blurr says, and he wraps his legs around Bluestreak's waist, tries to leverage himself up for a steady grind, but the position is too awkward, and all he can do is make a noise of disappointment. "Don't tell me you're as evil as Ricochet."

"Not quite." Bluestreak shifts, just enough that he can rock his spike against Blurr's valve, painting the head of it in lubricant and teasing Blurr's anterior node. "Is he going to get angry if I frag you?"

Blurr barks a laugh and licks his lips. "Right now, my anger is the one you should be worried about. Get the frag inside me already."

"I was wrong. You're just as much of a brat as Jazz is," Bluestreak says. "I ought to turn you over my knee as well. I think you'd benefit from a good swatting."

Blurr flushes a brilliant cerulean. His engine offers a telling rev, and isn't that something Bluestreak wants to explore at a later date? Right now, however, best to keep it simple.

Ricochet and Jazz are both watching them, stealing glances in between thrusts and kisses, and Bluestreak intends to put on a damn good show.

~

Jazz squirms beneath him, but it's easy enough to keep him pinned. Ricochet pays him half a mind, the rest of it focused on Blurr and Bluestreak nearby, the former pinned beneath the latter, their interaction easy and comfortable.

He's not jealous. Ricochet is fine with Blurr playing with whomever he wants so long as they agree, and Ricochet is fine with Bluestreak being one of those on the list. He trusts Jazz with Bluestreak, after all, so why not his mate?

But there's a queer feeling in his spark nonetheless as he watches Blurr readily submit to Bluestreak without so much as a snarl or a struggle, with a smile on his face, and his field emitting waves of warm desire.

"I know you're not fragging done yet," Jazz hisses beneath him, trying to gain some leverage for a good push back, but unable to do so. His valve spasms around Ricochet's spike, desperate for more stimulation.

Ricochet gives him a light swat on the hip. "Stop squirming and enjoy the show. There's plenty of time to overload later."

"Says you!" Jazz whines and claws harder, his talons leaving rips in the blanket which Ricochet will make him pay for later. He shoves a hand beneath his body, reaching for his spike, but Ricochet is quick to snatch it, pinning Jazz's wrist at the base of his spinal strut.

"Stop that," he growls and gives a little thrust, just to tease.

Jazz gasps and ripples around him, the scent of his arousal intoxicating. "You stop," he snaps, and he twists to look over his shoulder, visor narrowed in a glare. "Pay attention to me, not them. I don't care how sexy they are."

Ricochet tilts his head, momentarily distracted from the other two. "You're not jealous?"

"Why would I be?" Jazz's vents hitch, his hips twisting desperately to ride Ricochet's spike with little success. "Blurr's sexy, but I'm sexier, and Blue loves me."

He sounds so sure. He sounds surer of Bluestreak's devotion than anything Ricochet has ever heard his brother declare before. He sounds as sure as Ricochet is for Blurr, and he has to admit, it relieves Ricochet to the depths of his spark.

He never thought Jazz would ever find someone he could trust like he trusts Ricochet, and apparently, he's found that trust in Bluestreak.

"Fair point," Ricochet murmurs, and decides to offer a little mercy, picking up the pace once more, fragging Jazz hard and deep, the way he knows his twin prefers.

Jazz is right. There's no reason to be jealous.

Still...

"Blurr's mouth looks lonely, don't you think?" Ricochet asks, as he eyes the distance between Jazz and Blurr and decides its doable.

Jazz groans. "It does. Wanna get me there?"

Ricochet grins. "With pleasure."

~

Blurr pants, heat crackling through his frame, his spike seeping lubricant and his valve eagerly cycling down on Bluestreak's spike. It's just a shade not enough, however, and he suspects Bluestreak is doing that on purpose.

How does Jazz handle this? Not even Ricochet is this much of a tease!

"You look frustrated, boss," Bluestreak says, and that little flutter of arousal-embarrassment-need bursts through Blurr's spark, like it does every time Bluestreak purrs the moniker at him. He leans closer, smirks wider. "How can I help?"

Blurr shivers, his thighs pressing in on Bluestreak's hips. "You are a menace," he gasps, trying to buck up, but Bluestreak's grip far too tenacious to grant him any leverage.

"He damn sure is."

Blurr tilts his head back, sees Jazz coming into reach, grinning like a maniac.

"You're one to talk," Bluestreak says as he bottoms out, grinding deep, punching a moan out of Blurr before he can swallow it.

Jazz nuzzles Blurr, lips tracing around the curve of his jaw. "Thought I'd come say hello."

The berth shakes as Ricochet comes into view over Jazz's shoulder, and judging by the low groan Jazz breathes against Blurr's intake, he's just pushed himself back into Jazz's valve.

"Make your fragging partner frag me right," Blurr growls as Bluestreak circles his hips, the head of his spike grinding over his ceiling node until sparks dance in his optics.

"I can't make him do anything," Jazz says with a laugh, though his visor is glazed with pleasure, his vents coming in sharp bursts. "I can give you a hand though.” He kisses Blurr, tangling their glossa together.

It's sloppy and uncoordinated, between Bluestreak's thrusts and Ricochet's thrusts, and the jerking motion of Jazz against him, but damn if it doesn't feel good. Especially when a hand wraps around Blurr's spike, slick with his own pre-fluid, and strokes him perfectly.

Blurr shudders, and doesn't have to look to know it's Jazz stroking him, arrhythmic counterpoint to Bluestreak moving in his valve. He's perfect at it, too. The perfect pressure, the perfect angle, the perfect speed, and the sweep of his thumb over the head of his spike is all Blurr needs to finally overload. His backstrut arches, his engine roars, and he spills all over Jazz's hand, clamping down on Bluestreak's spike as the ecstasy takes him.

He has only a few seconds to enjoy the aftermath before Jazz is yanked away from him and shoved down into the berth, Ricochet fragging him hard and near-violently. Jazz yelps before he starts spilling out a babble of encouragement, scrabbling at the berth, bucking in Ricochet's grip.

Blurr almost doesn't know which one of them overloads first. It might even have been in tandem, Jazz spurting down on the berth, leaving a visible wetspot, while Ricochet thrusts deep, shoves Jazz into the mattress, and overloads with a satisfied grunt, his denta sunk into Jazz's shoulder.

Blurr's own armor aches in sympathy. He's lost count of the number of times Ricochet has bitten him enough to leave a mark. He's quite sure there's a permanent divot in his right clavicular strut.

Not that he's complaining.

"You could... go a little... easier, bro," Jazz pants as he collapses onto the berth, fans whirring, field screaming satisfaction.

"Never." Ricochet smirks, far too satisfied with himself, and heedless of the fact he's still connected to Jazz, leans over to steal Blurr's lips for a deep kiss.

He hums into it, valve twitching, and that's when he realizes -- one of them has yet to overload. Bluestreak's still rocking into him, less of an urgent pace, and more of a slow and steady motion. His field is volcanic with need, but there's no sign of the urgency in his expression. He's watching all three of them, optics dark, lips slightly parted.

Blurr shoves Ricochet off. "Wait. Blue hasn't overloaded yet."

"That's cause my mech's got stamina," Jazz says. He struggles to pull himself out from under his brother, who holds him in place until Jazz outright kicks Ricochet who finally lets him go.

Bluestreak chuckles. "Knowing the three of you, I suspected one overload wasn't going to cut it anyway. I know you've got something else in mind, pet. What was it?" He looks at Jazz, raises an orbital ridge.

"He knows you too well." Ricochet laughs and swats Jazz's aft, the loud ring of metal on metal echoing through the room. "Spill."

Jazz whips a glare over his shoulder, but it doesn't stop him from crawling toward Bluestreak, raising up to drape his arms over Bluestreak's shoulders and nuzzle into his lover's intake.

"Ya know what I want, babe," he murmurs, his voice silken and seductive. "Want all of ya."

All of them? Damn, but Jazz is optimistic, isn't he?

~

A thrill runs through Jazz's spark, his array surging back to life at the mere thought of having all three of his favorite berth partners attending to him at once. And yeah, maybe he has been thinking about this for weeks, and subtly planting the seeds, and arranging for this night with a certain act in mind.

So what?

"All of us, hm?" Bluestreak asks, and his voice is deep and dark and riddled with promise. "Do you have a preference or is it Master's choice?"

Jazz shivers and tucks his face into Bluestreak's intake, so many different combinations and possibilities dancing through his processor that it's impossible to choose. He wants it all, greedy as he is, and lubricant dribbles out of his valve slicking his thighs.

"You pick," he moans, trying to sling a leg over Bluestreak's thigh so he can rut against it, provide some relief to his aching valve.

Bluestreak chuckles and grabs his hips, pushing him back. "Your wish is mine, pet," he murmurs before he looks over Jazz's shoulder, coincidentally speaking right over Jazz's audial. "What do you say, Ricochet? Blurr? My pet wants all of us at one time."

"I'm not surprised. He's always been greedy," Ricochet says, but his voice rumbles with desire, and it thrums all the way to Jazz's spark.

He buries a moan in Bluestreak's intake, anticipation coiling like lightning in his belly.

The berth dips, cloth rustles.

"Sure," Blurr says. "Why not? I'd hate for all his obvious planning to go to waste."

"Bring him here, Blue," says Ricochet, and Jazz whimpers as his imagination supplies several possible combinations all at once.

It is, of course, not as sexy as it should be to get arranged. It takes far too much shuffling and limb adjusting and quite a few squashed fingers and bumped noggins.

Still.

Jazz crawls into his twin's arms, his legs stretched wide over Ricochet's hips, his spike firmly seated in Jazz's valve. He's fully pressurized and throbbing, fangs bared in a smirk as he cups the back of Jazz's neck and pulls him into a bruising kiss.

"You could have just asked," he says.

"This is me asking," Jazz retorts and bites Ricochet's bottom lip, even as he feels the warmth and weight of Bluestreak behind him, hands on his hips, smoothing over his aft, thumbs sweeping the panel hiding his port.

"Open up, pet," says Bluestreak, two fingers smearing through the slick seeping from Jazz's valve, leaving him wet and open and eager.

Jazz moans and presses his forehead to Ricochet's clavicular strut as he cants his hips and his panel snicks aside, two slick fingers plunging into his port without preamble. It's a stretch this side of a burn, and Jazz relishes it as his port twitches.

"Come on, Blue, I don't need that much," he says.

A sharp impact rings against Jazz's aft, and he jerks, spike grinding against his brother's abdomen, valve clenching around his brother's spike.

"You're ready when I say you're ready," Bluestreak says, and there it is, that tone of command Jazz loves dearly.

He shivers again as the rumble of Ricochet's amusement vibrates against his cheek. "Good one, Blue. He could always use a few more."

"He enjoys swatting too much," Bluestreak says, and the sound of the two of them talking over him while Bluestreak fingers him open, and Ricochet rocks within him in barely present motions, only surges Jazz's arousal to new heights.

Wait. One spike, two spikes...

"Where's Blurr?" Jazz asks, trying to shake himself out of the pleasure fugue, lifting his head to scan the berthroom.

"Checking on the brats. Don't you worry about him. He'll be back in time to make use of this," Ricochet says as he thumbs Jazz's bottom lip.

Jazz resists the urge to bite him. He's saved from being a smart aft when Bluestreak's fingers leave his port, only to replace them with his spike, filling Jazz inch by gradual inch, as though he's trying to torment Jazz with pleasure alone.

"Primus, you're tight," Bluestreak breathes, and his hands shake a little where they hold Jazz's hips. His field is volcanic in it's intensity, and Jazz can taste how much he's struggling to keep under control.

Good.

Jazz moans and rocks a little between them, the sensitive linings of both his valve and his aft singing with stimulation. He cants his hips, his swollen anterior node catching on a rise in Ricochet's armor, sending a shock through his array. He could overload, just like this, except his mouth is so lonely.

Where the frag is Blurr?

As if summoned, the door opens, Blurr stepping inside and sliding it shut behind him. "They're still fast asleep," he says.

"I knew they would be," Ricochet says. "Now get over here and put your spike in my brother's mouth."

Blurr gives Ricochet a dark look, which has Jazz burying a snicker against Ricochet's chestplate. "You're so crass."

"Like you're the epitome of class? Don't be so full of yourself," Ricochet says with a laugh. "Now hurry up." He gives Jazz a nudge, pushing him upright, and Jazz groans as he does so, shifting both Blue and Ricochet within him as he does so.

They nudge previously untouched sensor clusters, and a ripple of pleasure so intense makes Jazz's arms wobble, and he nearly topples back forward, if Bluestreak hadn't put an arm around his waist, holding him upright.

"I'm not going to last," Jazz gasps as his frame tingles and waves of pleasure radiate through his frame.

Bluestreak slides his palm down, circling the base of Jazz's spike and giving it a squeeze. Jazz groans, jerking in Bluestreak's arms.

"And that's not helping," he moans.

Bluestreak chuckles in his audial, nipping the side of his jaw. "I should've brought one of the rings. I didn't even think about it."

"And here I thought you were always prepared," Jazz gasps as the berth shifts, and Blurr comes into reach, glaring down at Ricochet as he contemplates the geometric shapes of their current configuration.

"And how do you expect me to fit in there?" Blurr asks.

"There's plenty of room on Ricochet's chassis," Jazz suggests, and gives his favorite Racer a sly look. "It might even shut him up."

Ricochet scowls.

Blurr's expression turns devilish. "Good point," he says, and swings a leg over Ricochet's chassis, his thighs stretched wide, until Ricochet snags his hips and pulls him further back, near-planted atop Ricochet's face.

"If you're going to do that, might as well do it right," Ricochet says with a lewd lick up the length of Blurr's valve.

Blurr shivers and wobbles in place. "Yeah, this'll work." He looks at Jazz then, one hand on his spike where he's stroking it lightly, a few pearls of pre-fluid seeping from the tip. "You want it, come and get it."

There are benefits to being the smallest and most flexible of the four of them. Jazz wants it, so all he has to do is lean forward -- sadly losing Bluestreak's grip on his spike -- and wrap his mouth around Blurr's spike.

It's not even a strain, and the change in position puts another new pressure on his sensory nodes, making them sing. Charge crackles out from under his armor. He moans around Bluestreak's spike, hips twitching and rocking, eager to start the dance. It's impossible to focus on any motion, so he's glad when Blurr starts thrusting into his mouth, using him as much as Ricochet and Bluestreak are.

Jazz moans and goes limp among them, his vents roaring, his mind going blissfully elsewhere, his entire frame a bundle of sensation. There's not an inch of him that doesn't sing with ecstasy.

He tries to hold on. Honestly, he does. He gives it everything he has. But it's so much.

Ricochet thrusts up into him, and Bluestreak pushes deeper, and Blurr takes his mouth, and he's claimed by all three of them, the three most important mechs in his life, and Jazz doesn't think he's ever felt so wanted.

He shatters, then and there, overloading so hard his entire frame seizes up, port and valve clenching rhythmically, spike spurting, his vision striping with static. The hot, distant sensation of Bluestreak spilling inside of him pierces the haze, but the rest is pure ecstasy, wringing him dry and leaving him a limp, trembling mess.

It's perfection.

~

Next time, if there is a next time, Bluestreak will remember the spike ring. Perhaps for both of them, depending on how much Bluestreak has been driven to the edge up to this point.

As it is, his knees wobble, his legs struggle to hold his weight, and it's all he can do not to join Jazz in collapsing on top of Ricochet, pinning him beneath their combined weight.

Best he can do is wrap his arms around Jazz's waist and tilt them off to the side, dragging Jazz off Ricochet, freeing him from their mass. Jazz is completely out of it, limp and uncoordinated, making quiet pleased noises, his field brimming with satisfaction.

Ricochet, on the other hand, sounds annoyed. "Fragger could've lasted longer," he says as he sits up, spike glistening with Jazz's lubricant, and his face smeared with Blurr's lubricant.

Blurr seems to agree, because he swings himself into Ricochet's lap, grabs his face, and kisses him like there's no tomorrow, hips rocking as he takes Ricochet's spike into his valve.

Ricochet growls into Blurr's mouth, gets a firm grip on Blurr's aft, and lurches to his feet, staggering for a second before catching his balance. Blurr murmurs something against Ricochet's lips, prompting Ricochet to growl and hold him tighter.

Bluestreak shifts his attention back to Jazz, limp and sated, fans buzzing noisily. He eases his depressurizing spike out of Jazz's aft -- despite Jazz making an involuntary noise of protest -- and rolls his lover into his arms, curling around Jazz on the berth. He knows he's made the right choice when clawed fingers sink into his armor seams, and Jazz tucks his head under Bluestreak's chin.

Jazz always gets extra snuggly after a particularly good overload.

The door swishes open, and Bluestreak realizes Blurr and Ricochet have vanished right as it swishes shut behind them. Seeking privacy, perhaps. Or maybe the washracks? Because Bluestreak will absolutely borrow them as soon as Jazz is aware enough to stand. He's sticky, and covered in lubricant, and Jazz is trying to tangle their limbs together, smearing himself all over Bluestreak's frame.

As usual.

"It's a good thing you're cute," Bluestreak says as he swipes a smear of lubricant from a corner of Jazz's mouth.

"I'm adorable," Jazz mumbles without onlining his visor.

"And sneaky." Bluestreak chuckles and presses a kiss to Jazz's forehead. "Did you enjoy your nefarious scheme?" Prowl would be proud, not that Bluestreak dares say this aloud. Prowl is still a touchy subject for Jazz, even years after the fact.

Jazz's lop-sided grin says it all. "Did you?"

"Blurr was interesting," Bluestreak says, thinking back to the playful banter he exchanged with his one-time boss. "I can see why Ricochet is so taken with him."

"He's fun," Jazz agrees and throws a leg over Bluestreak's hip, gently grinding himself on Bluestreak's thigh, not with intent to overload. He does this sometimes, where he likes to stir the pleasure in his array, like one might ask for a massage. He's not trying to overload, he's just trying to feel good.

Bluestreak cups his aft, pulls him closer, gives him more leverage to gently rock and shiver. "Fun is good for a time, but I do prefer what we have," he murmurs, nuzzling Jazz's sensory horns. "You're the one I want, as troublesome as you are. You've always been the one."

"Because you love me," Jazz murmurs against Bluestreak's intake, and Bluestreak can feel the delight in Jazz's field.

He chuckles and strokes Jazz's backstrut, letting him curl as close as he likes, Jazz's motions slowing as he drifts toward recharge. "Yes. Because I love you."

It's been a long road to get here, full of many negotiations, discussions, and yes, arguments. Plenty of arguments. Jazz is terrible at saying what he wants -- unless it's in the berth and involves interfacing. And Bluestreak is horrible at guessing what Jazz wants -- unless it has to do with their sexual relationship.

They've each walked away from the other at least once, certain it can't work, that as compatible as they are in the berth, they aren't compatible outside of it. Inevitably, however, they draw back together, like inescapable gravity.

Jazz learns. Bluestreak learns.

They both figured out how to communicate.

And here they are now, certain of their feelings, certain of each other, and certain of what they have.

"Love you, too," Jazz murmurs in the last hazy moments before recharge fully claims him.

Bluestreak grins.

It's the closest to heaven Bluestreak thinks he's ever going to get.

~

Seven years.

They've been together seven years, and by now, Blurr'd like to think he knows Ricochet best out of anyone, except maybe Jazz. So he knows, by the twitch, by the overconfident smirk, by the boasting and the snark, what stupid thoughts are running through his mate's head.

“I want your spike to be the last one in in me tonight,” he murmurs in Ricochet’s audial as he climbs into Ricochet’s lap, his repressurized spike grinding against Ricochet’s abdomen.

Bluestreak had been interesting. Jazz is always fun. But Ricochet is the one Blurr claimed, who he built a family with, and there are no better arms than his.

Seems like Ricochet needs a little reminder of that.

“Is that right?” Ricochet asks, teasing and playful, but they’ve been together too long for Blurr not to sense the undercurrent. “I think I can oblige that.”

“In the washrack,” Blurr says, wrapping his legs around Ricochet’s waist. “I’m filthy.”

“We all are,” Ricochet laughs, but hefts Blurr up, carries him out of the berthroom, leaving their playmates behind, not that Blurr thinks either of them notice. Bluestreak and Jazz are wrapped around each other, whispering sweet nothings, and it’s sickeningly adorable.

Kind of sweet to see Jazz this far gone for someone though. Kind of nice to know Jazz is capable of attachment.

They both pause outside the rooms of their children like the good parents they are for a quick listen. All seems well, so Blurr drags Ricochet into a deep kiss, distracting him. They bumble into the washrack, fumble for the lights, for the switch to turn on the spray.

Blurr’s back hits the wall, the hot solvent spattering down on them, and he tightens his thighs around Ricochet’s waist. He rocks his hips, rocking his valve along Ricochet’s spike, smearing lubricant over the hot length.

“What are you waiting for?” Blurr asks, trying and failing to get the right angle.

Ricochet smirks at him, and there it is, he’s decided to be an aft because he’s too wrapped up in his head. “You’re sure you don’t want me to get Bluestreak in here instead?”

Blurr bares his denta and growls at him. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Am I?” Ricochet’s all smiles, all playful tones, but Blurr knows better. “You got along with him just fine, didn’t you?”

Blurr’s heels dig into the back of Ricochet’s thighs. “I didn’t fight Blue because I don’t have to, you idiot,” he snaps and grabs the back of Ricochet’s head, shoving their foreheads together. “I fight with you because it’s fun, and because you like it.”

“Mmm. I do at that,” Ricochet murmurs, his fingers flexing on Blurr’s aft, his hips rocking against Blurr, teasing over his anterior node but still not pushing into him. He’s driving Blurr to distraction.

He doesn’t sound convinced.

Time to break out the big guns.

“It also helps that I love you, Ricochet, not him,” Blurr says as he presses a kiss to the corner of Ricochet’s mouth. “I don’t want Bluestreak. I want you.”

Ricochet drags in a shuddering breath, his forehead pressed to Blurr’s. “I fragging know that,” he mutters, like he’s angry at himself, not at Blurr.

“Then remind me,” Blurr murmurs, and rolls his hips again, the both of them shivering in tandem, heat twisting and winding through his belly.

Interfacing is one thing. It’s physical. It’s an automatic response. Anyone can touch Blurr in all the right ways to make him overload. But knowing it’s Ricochet, feeling his mate’s field against his, that’s enough to rocket Blurr from zero to desperation within the space of a few vents.

“Frag me properly,” Blurr says. “Show me how much I’m yours.”

Ricochet’s engine growls, his grip on Blurr’s aft hard enough to leave dents, but he cants his hips, and pushes into Blurr, long and slow, lighting up his sensory lining. Blurr groans, pleasure peppering through him in ecstatic bursts. His valve cycles down.

“Mine,” Ricochet grits out, grinding deep, rolling hard on Blurr’s ceiling node, that perfect ridge in his armor scraping along Blurr’s swollen anterior node. Primus, he loves that perfect ridge. It’s like it was made for him.

“Yours,” Blurr agrees on the end of a moan, trying to hold Ricochet closer, ride that hard edge of near-overload. It’s ridiculous how quick Ricochet can put him on the edge, teetering toward ecstasy.

Click.

Blurr’s spark squeezes with affection as Ricochet’s visor lifts, revealing the pale blue of his optics, a moment of vulnerability he rarely shows. Ricochet doesn’t need his visor to see, Blurr knows this, but both he and Jazz have worn them so long, they feel naked without them. Naked and defenseless.

“Mine,” Ricochet repeats, but that’s not the word he’s trying to say. He stares into Blurr’s gaze, and there’s an intensity to it they rarely indulge in.

“I love you, too,” Blurr says and he holds Ricochet’s head. “And don’t you forget that you’re mine, too.”

Ricochet’s engine purrs as the solvent spatters down on them, filling the washrack with a fine mist. “Every part of me I can give ya,” he says, and murmurs, “love you, Zippy” before his mouth crashes over Blurr’s, a kiss both fierce and claiming.

The rest is a blur of their frames colliding, Ricochet thrusting into him, harder and faster, grinding him against the wall. It’s a slew of kisses, bites left on his collar fairing, his intake, finger-shaped dents in his hips, his thighs, his aft. Streaks of paint left on the washrack wall, and their fields clashing, twisting together in a riot of heat and desire and love.

Blurr isn’t even sure which of them overloads first. Whether it’s the hot splash of Ricochet inside him, the steady scrape of that armor ridge over his anterior node, or the rub of his spike on Ricochet’s abdomen that sends Blurr into ecstasy. Or his rippling valve and tightening thighs and eager moans which make Ricochet slam hard into him, transfluid pulsing hotly over Blurr’s valve lining.

It is, however, Ricochet’s knees who weaken, and they slide down the wall with an irritating scrape Blurr knows he’s going to have to fix later. He’s too sated to care at the moment, fans whirring, vents sucking in desperate gulps of air, and himself kissing Ricochet softly, gentle on both of their tender, bitten lips.

“We should get cleaned up,” Blurr murmurs, nuzzling Ricochet.

“In a minute,” Ricochet says.

Fair enough.

~

“Do you think they’re coming back?” Jazz murmurs.

“Well, it is their bed,” Bluestreak says as he strokes Jazz’s backstrut and further enmeshes their fields.

Jazz loves it when he does that. It’s like Bluestreak possesses him in every way possible. And right now, it’s quiet and dim, and Jazz feels like he could slip back into recharge at any second. He’s so damn proud of himself for pulling this off, too.

“Technically, if it’s Ricochet’s, it belongs to me, too,” Jazz points out and buries his face against Bluestreak’s intake. “Besides, I’m not leavin’. That couch is a nightmare.”

Bluestreak laughs.

“You’re lucky I don’t want you to leave,” Ricochet says as the door swooshes open, two pairs of footsteps accompanying him. “Now scoot over and make room.”

“This is as scooted as we can get,” Bluestreak says.

Jazz peers up at his twin, who’s back to full swagger while Blurr looks like he’s been mauled. Between the scratches, the paint streaks, the bites -- wow, someone felt like they needed to restake their claim.

“Don’t be an aft. Share your berth,” Jazz says. “We’re not going anywhere, and besides, it’s rude to kick out someone you’ve recently fragged.”

Ricochet smirks at them, both orbital ridges raised. “I didn’t frag Bluestreak.”

“You fragged me by proxy,” Bluestreak says.

Blurr chuckles and climbs onto the berth. “He’s got you there.”

Ricochet huffs, stymied by their logic, and Jazz muffles a laugh into Bluestreak’s intake. He knows his brother well enough to know it’s all in jest, and besides, needling Ricochet is one of his favorite joys in life.

“Fine,” Ricochet says. “You both can stay.”

He flops onto the berth, making it rattle, and muscles Blurr into his arms like some kind of possessive barbarian. Blurr handles it with his usual grace.

“Could you not try to suffocate me with your bulk?” Blurr demands.

“Can’t help it, Zippy. There’s just not enough room,” Ricochet says with feigned innocence.

Jazz chuckles quietly.

Bluestreak presses a kiss to the curve of his jaw. “This was a good idea you had, pet,” he murmurs. “Maybe we can do it again sometime.”

“Leave the planning to me, Blue. I got it.”

Jazz might already have a few more ideas. Course, he’s going to keep them to himself for now. Better to rely on the element of surprise when it comes to these three. Jazz has to keep them on their toes, after all. Can’t let life get too predictable.

Where would be the fun in that?

***