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A long ways beforeservo, Kickback and Shrapnel munch on rust sticks outside of their home, listening to the nature and desperately trying to block out the lewd noises they hear from inside the home.
"I never thought to use our clones for this, this," Shrapnel says. If he ever gets a partner (which he sincerely doubts, but Bombshell got one somehow so who knows), he's considering the possibility of some clone shenanigans. "Does this count as blackmail on Bombshell, Bombshell?"
"I think he would actually just kill me if I did," is the matter of fact reply.
"No mind control, control?"
"Didn't we bet whether or not he would use it on his seeker?"
"What, what?" Shrapnel shakes his helm. "No, you know him, him. He doesn't use it on people he likes, likes. Like us, us. Says it gives him a weird feeling, feeling."
"Eh, here's your answer." Kickback bites off another chunk of rust stick. At least, he's pretty sure it's that. "If I used this as blackmail, he'd skip the mind control and just kill me."
"Best not to take the risk, risk. Hm, hm." A pause. Shrapnel finishes up his treat. Probably the only reason the two put up with Bombshell's conjunx is because the seeker brings food every time, and that's essentially liquid gold for high metabolisms. The noises stop. "Sounds like they're done, done."
He is immediately proven wrong by very loud moans.
"Nevermind, mind."
"Tell me the colors."
"Uhm, green, yellow, red."
"And what they mean?"
"Green for good, yellow for wait, red to stop?"
"Good enough."
Skywarp doesn't really get why they need these uhhhhhhhh "safe words"? But Bombshell wasn't going to do let them do this without it, so he might as well. This kind of interfacing was Skywarp's suggestion anyway, so making Bombshell feel comfortable is a must. Something about control? Eh, Shelly's got so much going on in his helm anyway. He gets weird over people he likes. If it gives his conjunx piece of mind, so be it.
Bombshell reaches over with the blindfold right over Skywarp's optics. "Tell me if it's not on tight enough."
"Mm, tighter. Little more. Oh! Bit less. Uh..," Skywarp shakes his helm to test the hold, "Perfect!" He offers up his wrists. "Servos now!"
It's nice to feel Bombshell's touch. With the lack of sight now apparent, he can totally feel more in touch haha. That's how it works right? Bombshell's claws are sharp, yet they don't puncture Skywarp as the other wraps spare ropes around his wrists. Stasis cuffs would've been preferable, but apparently using that for sexy times is "against code" and "too obscene" and "I can't unsee how Shockwave used them on Soundwave" or whatever.
Bombshell lets go, and Skywarp can hear some shuffling as he leaves to stride across the room. What sounds back is a rattle of scrap, unceremoniously dumped onto the floor. He can hear the beetleformer sigh and toss the metal here and there, before a dip in the mattress tells Skywarp that his conjunx is near.
"We have enough for three."
The seeker grins. "Oh, that's perfect then." The silence that follows makes Skywarp speak again. "Oh, don't worry! They're all you anyway! Besides I've taken on two people before, three ain't gonna be too different."
Bombshell doesn't do much other than say his name and give him a nuzzle on the cheek before retreating. He can hear the recline of a simple chair take hold, then with the sound of metal forming and melding together. Very slowly, Skywarp waits in anticipation, his legs nearly crossing in prep for this. Bombshell lets out a moan from the base of his throat, the sounds of his modesty panels flicking open.
"Alright." He sounds spent, though he must be since he's created three clones of himself.
The first thing Skywarp feels is a palm to his valve panels. The metal from that servo is still warming up, fresh from creation. A thumb is trying to worm its way to open the panel, teasing the seeker with foreplay barely out of reach. The touch is holding, strong but not so forceful to harm. Skywarp's knees join, meeting as if that would give any friction to his array. His legs are parted by another servo, pressing one down to be flush with the berth. They've barely started and yet. He wants to open up, but not yet. Oh, not yet.
A bigger reaction mewls out of him when another set of servos touches down to his midsection; one to grope his chassis, and another to press into his spike panel. He jerks, the cool touch running like ice upon his engine. The coldness scrapes against his cockpit, whist it traces upon his panels in tandem with the first set of servos. He shivers. Charge is running down his struts from simple touch; how laughable yet enticing.
The third and final set of servos is marked where the mattress dips at Skywarp's helm. It is surely awkward to position oneself above a seekers helm, for their various implements made space up there crowded, but Bombshell is an Insecticon and these are his clones. They are small enough and limber enough to not worry. Two thumbs force themselves into Skywarp's mouth. From the angle alone, it's clear his helm is between the clones legs.
The servos spasm for a brief moment; Bombshell has let out a throaty "ah"; it seems he's gotten eager. Skywarp hasn't opened his panels yet and here his conjunx is, in the novice steps of self servicing. Skywarp would smile, but the thumbs are currently pressing down on his glossa and tracing his dentae, teasing his lips open and not yet tearing into protoform. Skywarp jerks; he's become far too impatient with all this rubbing.
"Ah, aghk. Ahheuh. Nga. Nnnnnga? Augk. Shah–" A leg is thrown over his midsection, a weight pressing down. Compared to other beetleformers, especially type of beetle Bombshell is, he was short. Insecticons of his size do better to sneak than to force. That doesn't stop him and his two other cohorts from trying though. That is to say, Bombshell's weight holds a presence, but not anything that would hurt. "Nng..!"
The stroking and pressing and rubbing deepens. The weight of a clone on his torso is enough to stall Skywarp bucking his hips as his modesty panels are stimulated. It teases him, goads him. The pleasure is right at the edge of feeling that of course Skywarp wants more.
Lubricant is coalescing inside his panels, his cod piece feels tight. He can't open them. Not until Bombshell says so. Skywarp wants this scene to be used until either has grown sick of the doubles, but to get there, his panels will have to be opened only on command.
After what seems like ages of digits digging their sharpness into his mouth flesh, the simulacrum of a valve, a stern voice undercut by an odd vocal effect sounds off. "Open."
The word is barely out before the panels snap clear cut. His arrays are wanting. Bare mesh meets the biting air, as its cool touch stings his pressurized spike and airs out the lubricant of his valve. He is being teased without touch. String of his oral lubricant dance hairs on his face as servos retract from it. The waiting arrays want so sweet, twitching from desire. The touch around both is feather light, skirts around the edges of where the panels retracted to, and ghosts a breath away from full on contact.
The glossa that meets the rim of his valve is warm; it traces the edges to tease. It's the tapered end of the glossa, for the rest of it was monstrously long compared normal ones. It's little more than a finger teasing the hole of his opening, only wet and more deft than one would think. A whimper escapes from Skywarp's mouth. He tries to buck closer to it, but he's held down as he feels a modesty panel click open on his cockpit.
Leaking, lubricant is leaking on his glass. He can hear Bombshell grit his dentae. The underside of Skywarp's spike is teased on each ridge with a claw dancing up them, like steps on a stairway. He twitches every time a claw catches a ridge for a smidge longer, his jaw pushes his teeth together. His spike is grabbed and a wet valve is pinning forward his spike. On one side is the valve, lubricating and flitting, the other are servos cupping and stroking as the valve rocks against him.
"Oh… Ah, ah…. Gih, guh. Buh– Bombshell…" A heat overlays just above Skywarp's face. He does not reach up, but he tilts his helm back and sticks out his glossa. His glossa is met with a hole. It's wet, and by how easily he can shove his glossa in, already ready for more. And so, with little fanfare, he puts his mouth to valve and tastes the mesh of a mere copy of his lover. From the way there is a weight bounding to his chin, this clones spike is also out, but it doesn't matter too much when Bombshell's ventilation speeds up.
For clones, they're not exactly the complete sentience of their creator. It's much like Reflector in that they are more as body doubles that route pleasure from them back to its creator. In that sense, they do not hold minds, and in this context, all of what they should feel is dumped onto Bombshell. That is too say, Bombshell is feeling pleasure twofold in his valve and that this— while being Skywarp's idea— is far more than enough to satisfy the beetleformer.
"Mmnngkkh!" Though Skywarp wonders if pleasure can be felt through the glossa because the clone at his valve shoves it right in. It doesn't move just yet, but it coils inside his walls to get every last inch in there, and all the shifting around does exactly as much stimulation as you think. The glossa's thick at the base, not enough to rival a spike, but enough that it gives presence and feeling. His calipers cycle down as charge runs from helm to pede and somehow doesn't peter out the wanting.
His little vocalizations bears a moan from Bombshell as it reverberates into the clone's intimate. The calipers there cycle on his mouth, squeeze at his oral. Skywarp does his best not to bite, only gliding his glossa between the folds, rim, and hole he's pleasuring; the one at his helm rocks his hips down, forcing more and more charge to be rung. Skywarp is all too glad to do so, because the sweetness his audials receive is incentive enough.
There he can hear it, that hiss. He isn't sure if rhinoceros beetles can hiss, but Bombshell surely does. It's a distinctive one, one made through grit dentae that threatened to split lips, the clicks so heard following the initial sound, to the movement that accompanied it, indicating a keening into his seat from the pleasure.
Skywarp whimpers. The glossa shoving itself deep into him begins wiggling, and slobbering his insides. It's wet and uncoordinated in his stimulation, but uncoordinated or not it's slighting against his ceiling node. It's somehow a kiss and not a kiss to his insides. He's giving oral to the clone at his helm too, whose pleasure was routed right back to Bombshell in a far too joyous way. He's a groaning, hissing, and moaning mess now, the sound of his chair scraping against the floor as he's trying to match what he's giving Skywarp. How delightful.
"Ah, Sk– skih‐ skuh… Sssssskywarp…"
There, then, does Skywarp reach up with his bound servos and clasps that neglected spike between them. The squeal he hears elicits a laugh out of him and elicits yet another sound of pleasure from his lover. He keeps his stroking a simple back and forth. It's not so much jerking him off as it is simply sliding his servos against that member— while not wet or soft as one, it is still a simulacrum of a valve.
Even more, the middle clone is grinding his valve against Skywarp's spike. They're not even doing insertion and still it feels so close to it. There's lubricant, valve and oral, letting itself mar what it can reach, from the recesses of his intake into the fresh heat of intimates being intimate. He can feel how the valve at his mouth is clenching and twitching, trying to cycle down on his glossa as he pushes and pulls with his sucks. He licks on that anterior node; the sound is honey to his audials when Bombshell cries out.
Skywarp's hips rock up for anything, more more more and more. He would practically be arching off the berth if it weren't for the middle clone grinding into his spike. Nothing is any of then but still the pleasure pours in.
It is of no surprise then that overload comes pretty easily… to Bombshell. A large hiss is all warning before the folds Skywarp is sucking on convulse and clench. Lubricant drips into his waiting mouth. The taste is indescribable. Is it gross, or is it like honey? Transfluid splatters in small spurts to his cockpit; it is warm. The valve at his spike suddenly roughs and stalls on his ridges, servos are palming the underside of his spike. They rub against him slowly once more. Bombshell's moaning is more like sobbing, but that's okay; Bombshell always has a tough time getting lost in pleasure. These noises are just indication he's starting to let go.
At such a delightful overload, Skywarp's frame shakes. There it builds for the seeker as well, the threshold before ecstasy stakes hold of him. He's pushing back at it, pushing to get more please just give him more please please please so close— and then it stops.
The glossa once spiraling deep in his valve agonizingly pulls out, slick with lubricant. It drips and it's wet. It licks up as it leaves, flitting against his anterior node. He's empty. The valve he was sucking on lifts away, and that clone sits back on his haunches. Servos become empty. Skywarp's spike is being held, but nothing is moving.
"Mnnnnno… Let me– let me overlo— ah!" His calipers cycle on nothing as the very tip of a glossa teases the rim of his valve, slow and agonizing. He whimpers, as a whimpering, wanting mess. The weight on his chassis ghosts digits on the ridges of his spike. He can feel his ventilations brush against an erect member, holding himself to it, stalling him from moving. His hips are immobile as the middle clone compresses his knees against them. The one at the bottom has a firm and steady grip on his legs. And the third is looming over him, the weight of him, pressing down on Skywarp's wrists with his servos. It's titillating, erotic, and waiting. Skywarp is impatient.
"You have to wait," Bombshell says. The tone is somehow desperate and wanting.
"Sh-shelly…" Right there. He's right on the edge of full pleasure, but the ember is dying. It's fading from intensity. His attempts to shift are stalled, but Skywarp knows very well why Bombshell is doing this, and he's okay with it. Rewards will come to those who wait, and Skywarp desperately needs to learn that. He knows it. He is impatient, but he knows it. "Please?"
He can hear him, Bombshell's ventilations; they run ragged and stalled, holding back every single strut of his being. He's so worked up even after an overload, Skywarp can feel it. Even if he can't see it, he knows Bombshell had long abandoned hiding his face, split open that ventail to let his mouth lying slack with lust. He's keeping him there, waiting and wanting. He dangles the release like goodies on a stick. Still, the three bodies that hold Skywarp down are merely copies of his conjunx, unable to give him that release, only instigate it on his command.
Skywarp can very much tell his mouth is far too close to the spike at his helm, just staying there and waiting. Mindless clones don't feel the pleasure, and thank goodness pain is fortunate enough to never transfer. Bombshell is just on edge as he is. Skywarp tilts his helm up, and lands a feather light kiss to the base of that spike.
The air stills for a moment. It's an action of nothing, yet it instigated the clone at the helm to suddenly shift; wrists are let go, and yet another weight lands above as the blunt helm of a spike parts at his lips and shoves itself down his throat. The noise Skywarp makes tenses his frame, and its not long before the other two clones resume their activities with greater fervor.
The glossa is shoved back to where it was causing the seeker to mewl, and the servojob at his spike is in tandem with valve lips to its topside. Skywarp's servos have yawned above his helm, if only to make room for the clone on him whose member his mouth is greedily taking. A chair clatters. The mattress above him dips with the full weight of another mech curling around his helm horizontally, the moans and clicks of erotic noises being apparent who it is.
"Sssssssssskywarp..!"
It builds and builds and builds, builds until he can't anymore and the tower topples and crashes as waves of overload thrash into his processor. Skywarp whines, a staccato of transfluid finding release through those stroking servos. His valve clenches down on a glossa far too long to be of normalcy, yet it still wriggles inside him to prolong the feeling. He nearly seizes from it all, and yet the movement does not, not until Bombshell finishes again, but Skywarp doesn't mind.
Overload comes quickly for his partner. A salty taste floods Skywarp's intake as the barely contained half-whimper half-moan comes in tandem with the spike hilting in as deep as possible. At the same time, the valve grinding at Skywarp's spike convulses, squeezes down on nothing inside as its dragged against his ridges. The noise Bombshell makes is prolonged, loud and high, as even through all this stimulation, he still moves to milk this pleasure for all he can, until the energy dies off in exponents.
The clones have finally all stopped moving, leaving a wet mess of fluids in their wake. They've since retracted from inside of him, simply holding him until the body at his helm shifts up. The spike slides out lazily, leaving a trail of transfluid that landed back onto his lips until he breaks the strand. Skywarp swallows what he can. Tastes… tree-y. The glossa leaves his valve, left gushing lubricant in wake of it being empty once more, and Skywarp's spike softens once the servos at it were off.
Slowly but surely, the dead weight of clones upon him are rolled off and clatter to the floor. Considering how loud it sounds, the clatter was now of scrap metal once more. Clones are hard upkeep anyway. It's really only for the battlefield and berthroom can they stay without issue. Anything else is too much on an Insecticon. Couple that with an insane metabolism and energy spending, Bombshell's probably real tired.
"Eat this." Some sort of mint thing is popped into his mouth? It tastes nice, and Skywarp gnaws on it until it's basically pebbles, then swallows.
The beetleformer has long gotten up, probably wandering around the berth to just clear the floor more. Skywarp was like 80— no, 60% sure they're done, but a familiar weight at his hips says otherwise. A sound leaves him; servos feel down his frame, tapping at his turbines and gliding across his paint. Legs cage his hips. The chords of a voice reverberates above him.
"Enough of those clones." The voice is somehow annoyed, but still the same amount of smarm that underlies the Insecticon's voice. "I want you."
He nearly gasps the confirmation. "Oh.., yes…"
He flinches and soon leans into the touch at his spike. Strokes are slow, melting, working him up like the first time they interfaced. Nerves shaking, impatient, yet wanting. Want of this to last as long is pleasurable, last as long as they can. Soon, he's full pressurized and there's no waiting regarding insertion. A wet heat encases his spike, tight and clenching like a vice. The couple's noises leak out from lips trying to do their best to stay shut. Skywarp's legs jerk. Bombshell servos scratch at his chassis.
Patience is now lost on them when his partner starts moving; Bombshell's finally got his processor to stop running from Cybertron and back. All he is doing is sinking himself onto Skywarp again and again, squeezing again and again. It is half-grinding and half-thrusting. Despite how much energy was used to create and puppeteer clones, Bombshell sets his pace faster than Skywarp had expected, not that he's complaining.
From his wrists held to his chassis, to where a servo holds him down, and to where the full weight of his lover grinds their sexes together, the berth shakes and rattles. Skywarp hears it again, that sound. The sound described before as a hiss with clicks, a true signal of his conjunx lost in pleasure. It's delightful when Bombshell gets like this. He wants to see it. He wants to see his face as he makes that sound. He's seen it before and he wants to see it again.
He hooks his thumbs under the blindfold and lifts, pops off the bandana and quirks his helm up. Oh. Oh, what a delight.
Bombshell did split his ventail open, his mouth in a drool from earlier when one of the clones was giving Skywarp oral. Here, his bottom lip is caught on his sharp dentae, digging into the mesh like he'll split it and bleed. His optics are in a dreamy haze, half-lidded and unfocused; their glow is low and slight. When Skywarp hits a particularly good spot, Bombshell's face tenses up soon after a chassis deep moan. It spurs on more when Skywarp thrusts to meet Bombshell's own.
They're a mess, transfluid obscenely draped upon their chassis and lubricant leaking fucking everywhere. Mouths are a mess, valves a mess, chassis a mess, wet but not soaked, fluids abound but not slick— they simply fuck into each other in spite of the exhaustion.
Bombshell's spike has its underside stroke against Skywarp's cockpit; his lover is lowering his front more and more down to him as he rides. The berth shakes. He can feel his intimate fill him all the way to the brim. Bombshell eventually lowers far enough to pull flush with his chassis, and Skywarp hooks his arms around him to mash the two together even still.
It's an unsteady rhythm their hips fall into, sliding against each other when Bombshell's spike is also between their torsos. Their noises become a hodgepodge of pleasure, ecstasy and its synonyms. They get loud, not as loud as before, but enough to disrupt anyone who had the displeasure of walking by the door at the wrong time. Maybe even just the home. The thrusting isn't rough, far from it; it's essentially grinding, and from Bombshell's vocal pleasure, it's grinding into his ceiling node.
Walls convulse around his spike, and Bombshell cries out, shut and restrained. It is released with a long sigh, followed by the aftershock of twitching calipers still drunk on milking him for all it's worth. Transfluid coalesces and sticks sticky between them. The squeezing is unbearable, so enticing and a few more rockings of hips that hilt deep spurs on Skywarp's overload. Hot and pink, hot pink and hotter pink, the warmth floods into his lover, and it leaks. The obscenity of the virile fluid leaks, and there on does the berth become even more of a mess.
Bombshell lifts his helm slightly, before Skywarp's mouth is filled in with a glossa long enough to induce the erotic, is erotic, coiling around his own like an embrace for it. The brief thought of gross enters his processor just as quickly as pleasure kicks it out. Calipers cycle down. One more release, because this kiss is all too good to stop it here.
The pleasure is weaker, but they don't really focus on that when their mouths are fucking far harder than their arrays. Every squeeze down on Skywarp's spike just gives him more reason to incline his helm more into the kiss. That glossa is basically thrusting into his mouth as you would a spike anyhow; it does more to cause his calipers to clench on nothing as he thrusts into the other. His bound servos do well to keep Bombshell's helm in place, grind their paint and fluids between them as they embrace, as they keep melding into each other.
Overload is short, quick, and happens in small spurts. His valve has a pseudo-overload from not stimulation, but the simulacrum bound from his mouth. Transfluid stuffs his lover fuller than when the clones had filled the other— the fill leaks out steady when Bombshell pulls off, reluctantly so with his glossa still enrapturing Skywarp's own. He can still see those valve lips convulsing ever so slightly, twitching from aftershocks. His lover's face, a dreamy, drunk, half-lidded sort. The release is obscene and pink, another mess on top of everything else. It drips onto Skywarp's spike, equally as much of a a mess as that valve.
His arms are still around Bombshell's neck, so the latter reach over with his claws and plucks the twine binding them loose. Skywarp's arms flop to his sides. Their mouths are finally free from each other, and the thought of showering right about now begins to dawn on the seeker. But he's tired and spent and very exhausted, so all he can manage out is,
"Were y' jealous of th' clones?"
Digits dance and ghost over his sides. "I suppose so."
"Did it feel good? Felt good, right?"
The exhaustion is catching up. "Of course, you dolt. Loved every minute of it."
Skywarp hums. "Nnnnnnn, even more th'n mind c'ntrol?"
"Well, that's a step too far." Hot breath brushes past his neck. "They make me feel good in different ways." A beat. "Did you feel good?"
Skywarp can really only manage an "mhm" before he rests his optics. It's only a moment when he's soon startled back to awake once a snore graces his audials.
He sits up. "Ng.., Shelly?"
His conjunx is slack against him, everything left out in the open, and leaving clear a mess between their frames. The seeker looks around, the quiet settling in as the sun sets. He lays back down, spent and drawing his own ire as tiredness sets in. He mumbles a "g'night" despite it not being so.
He's hoping Shrapnel and Kickback won't be too irked at them.