[IDW] A Haze of Ecstasy

Cyclonus had a rhythm; Whirl did not. It was impossible to predict or anticipate them, and Prowl loved every fragging second of it.

He moaned around the spike in his mouth, lubricant bubbling up around his lips and dribbling over his chin. His hands curled into fists, bound as they were at the base of his backstrut and by the wrists.

Cyclonus’ hold on his head was gentle, but firm. His thumbs occasionally swept over Prowl’s cheeks as though enticed by the way they puffed as Cyclonus smoothly stroked into his mouth.

Prowl’s valve quivered, calipers clutching hungrily at the spike plunging into it. Whirl, by contrast, had no rhythm and seemed to delight in surprising Prowl.

Shallow and fast. Deep and slow. Grinding circles. Rutting rubs that flirted with Prowl’s rim and exterior clusters. It was maddening. It was wonderful.

Whirl held his hips with as much firm gentleness as Cyclonus. Every pinch of his claws was on purpose, a planned sting to rev Prowl’s engine.

Cyclonus was silent, his engine purring, his field a song of pleasure and want. Meanwhile, Whirl babbled a pretty string of filthy praise and encouragement. Both made Prowl’s spark shimmer.

He almost didn’t want them to overload, content as he was to float in this haze of ecstasy. Drowning in waves of push-pull, taken and claimed, offered and used.

Prowl’s optics shuttered. He gave himself over to it.

Sheer, utter bliss.

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[IDW] Vocal Commands

He’d kept Ratchet like this for hours: bound, trembling, overheated, charge boiling out from under his armor.

Each in-vent was a staticky gasp. His optics were bright and sparking. The dark, glossy bindings stood out in stark relief against white armor, which was becoming streaked with condensation.

He was beautiful like this.

“You’re close,” Perceptor said, more observation than question. “I can taste it.”

He was near enough to touch, if he so desired. But he didn’t allow himself to do so. That wasn’t the name of the game this time. A challenge had been laid.

“You deserve it, Ratchet. You’ve been such a good pet,” Perceptor praised as he let his gaze rove over Ratchet with appreciation. “You’ve behaved for once. And now you’re going to obey. You’re going to overload because I said so.”

Ratchet’s engine whined. His thighs trembled. His field crackled, much in the way his vocalizer did when he tried to speak.

“C—c—c—” The word caught, the syllable repeating itself, a sure sign of a scorched fuse.

Beautiful.

“Yes, you can,” Perceptor said. He leaned close, enough to feel Ratchet’s ex-vents but not touch. “Because when you do, I will claim you. Again and again. Until the only name you remember is mine.”

Ratchet moaned. His armor juttered. Lightning crawled out from beneath armor plates to decorate his paint.

“Now,” Perceptor murmured and let his field unfurl enough to taste Ratchet’s. “Give me what I want, pet. Surrender to the pleasure. Let it seethe in your lines and make your spark dance for me.”

He paused, enraptured by the sight of Ratchet writhing, of him dangling on the precipice. Perceptor licked his lips.

“Do it,” he growled. “Overload.”

And Ratchet obeyed, loosing his grip and thrashing as pleasure stripped him raw and sent arcs of charge spilling into the air. Peerceptor could taste the discharge, the ozone, and Primus, was it heady. His own frame thrummed with anticipation. He grinned as Ratchet made inarticulate noises and writhed.

Good medic.

[G1] Rewards

Trying to get Soundwave over his knee was an exercise in hilarity, until an appropriately sized chair mysteriously appeared in Starscream’s room. No longer would they have to try and balance a blocky dock across Starscream’s thighs.

Starscream smirked to himself and promptly invited Soundwave over for the evening.

The usually stoic mech arrived within moments, sans his cassettes, his frame jittery and his field pulsing an excited heat. It was kind of cute actually.

Starscream didn’t waste time with preamble. He plopped his aft down on the chair and summoned Soundwave with a crook of his finger.

Soundwave all but leapt to obey.

“This isn’t much of a punishment,” Starscream commented with a chuckle as Soundwave nearly threw himself over Starscream’s knees, the two-tiered structure of the chair making it easier for him to stay in place.

“Apologies,” Soundwave said, his engine rumbling eagerly and his vents blasting heat against Starscream’s abdomen.

A quiet click accompanied him shifting about, and Starscream swept a hand over his aft, fingers dipping between Soundwave’s thighs and emerging with lubricant slicking them.

No, this was more like a reward in Starscream’s opinion.

He rested his free hand across Soundwave’s back as Soundwave’s arms wrapped around his right leg. His aft pushed back, with what little leverage he had, bumping up against Starscream’s palm in silent entreaty.

“Will you overload from this?” Starscream asked as he smoothed his palm over Soundwave’s aft, teasing him with anticipation.

Soundwave’s armor rattled. “Affirmative.”

Starscream licked his lips. “Good,” he purred, and rapped his talon-tips over Soundwave’s plating, just to hear it chime. “Give me a loud one, Soundwave.”

Soundwave’s hands squeezed on his calf. “Yes, sir.”

Starscream shivered, heat bolting up his backstrut. He rubbed his palm over Soundwave’s aft again, mentally planning his strikes.

This was going to be delightful.

[FoF] Seven Days 08

Day Seven

He went to sleep with Bluestreak, still inside him, and woke to Bluestreak slowly and smoothly pumping into him. Jazz was awash with heat, slick soaking his featherdown and rump, his antrum quivering as it gripped Bluestreak’s clava.

“Morning,” Bluestreak murmured, his voice so warm and deep that it dripped into Jazz’s ears like honey.

“An’ it’s a good one.” Jazz arched his back, urging Bluestreak deeper. A tingle gathered at the base of his spine. “You haven’t had your fill yet?”

“Never.”

Bluestreak kissed him, soft and sweet and loving, as much claim as each thrust. Jazz shuddered, his hips rising toward Bluestreak, matching his rhythm. His core throbbed, thick with desire and need.

He moaned, into Bluestreak’s mouth. “Blue, I’m–”

“Hold on.” Bluestreak nuzzled his face, his exhalations so very warm. “I’m almost there. Let’s come together this time, okay? I wanna feel you all around me.”

Jazz shivered again. His entire body flushed with heat. He loved it when Bluestreak talked like that, saying things as though they were a sure bet, so much confidence. It was intoxicating.

“Can’t,” he gasped. He already felt release creeping up on him, a heavy buzz deep in his belly, and a tight coil in his groin.

“A little bit more.” Bluestreak peppered his face with kisses as his thrusts came faster and faster. One hand slid beneath Jazz’s rump, lifting and tilting him for a better angle.

Jazz keened as Bluestreak’s featherdown teased over his throbbing nub. Each faint brush was maddening. His legs quivered.

“Blue!” He tossed his head back.

Lips brushed over his throat, hot and claiming. A tongue swept over his claiming mark, teasing the bite scars. Hot exhalations forced another shiver out of Jazz.

Bluestreak’s rhythm stuttered, less control and more desperate hunt for release.

“Let go, lovely,” he gasped, and his teeth grazed his claim as though he intended to stake it all over again.

Orgasm poured over Jazz like a dip in the hot springs – hot and tingling and oh so good. He moaned as he felt Bluestreak spill into him, as his mate moaned his name and babbled out a litany of praise.

Jazz hummed happily as Bluestreak kissed him again, slow and deep, just like the motion of his hips, determined to extend Jazz’s pleasure.

He had the best mate in the world.

Bluestreak nuzzled him, and they shared the same breathing space. He lingered within Jazz, the press of their bodies warm and sticky and sated.

Jazz nuzzled back. “You,” he said, “are a force to be reckoned with.”

“Thank you.” Bluestreak chuckled. He curled around Jazz, tugging him close without shifting out of him, and started petting whatever he could reach. “And you’ve learned your lesson, I’ll bet.”

“Yeah. Never play games with a bara who was trained by his healer sire.” Jazz arched into the strokes, his frame still aching and limp.

He wasn’t going to be able to move from the nest today. He sincerely hoped Bluestreak didn’t have plans for him.

“Close enough.” Bluestreak tucked Jazz’s head under his chin and hummed low in his throat.

He had a beautiful voice. He didn’t sing often, but Jazz was occasionally treated to private shows. Bluestreak sang while he cleaned, too. It was the most adorable thing.

Then again, everything about his mate was adorable.

“There’s no way I’m going to make it out of this nest today,” Jazz said, and his voice crackled on the end. He distantly remembered screaming his release last night.

There probably wasn’t anyone on this level who hadn’t heard him.

Oh, well. They should be used to that by now.

“Then it’s a good thing I’ve already taken care of all our needs.” Bluestreak’s talons carded through his feathers, occasionally scratching over the skin beneath, and damn, it felt good. “Carrier’s going to bring by some food in a bit. I’ll get you up in the chair later so I can change out the covers. And tonight, I’ll carry you down to the hot springs for a long soak.”

Jazz purred and buried his hands in Bluestreak’s feathers – they were so fluffy in comparison to Jazz’s previous lovers. Got that from his sire, Bluestreak did. Ratchet was pretty fluffy, too. “You are the best mate ever,” Jazz declared.

Bluestreak laughed quietly. “And you are the best submissive I could have ever found.” He nuzzled the top of Jazz’s head. “I love you, flitterling.”

He always said it so easily. So earnestly. Jazz’s core tightened and throbbed every time he heard the words. They were rare in his life until Bluestreak came along.

He didn’t think he’d ever know what it felt like to be loved.

Jazz hid his face against Bluestreak’s chest. “You’re my only,” he murmured in return, just loud enough for Bluestreak to hear, but not for it to carry.

Bluestreak’s embrace tightened around him, an answer without words.

***

[FoF] Seven Days 07

Day Six

The next day, Jazz couldn’t leave their nest. He didn’t dare.

He was so wet, he left a puddle anywhere he sat. His clava would not restrain itself to his sheath. He couldn’t smile because of the need pounding through his veins. He couldn’t do anything but think about rut. The smell of it. The heat of it. The taste. The touch. The feel.

Jazz whimpered as his antrum throbbed, his clit-nub engorged and visible. He could smell himself. He pulled his hands into fists to keep from grabbing a pillow. The sharp sting grounded him in the present, and far from his daydreams.

His arousal would fade, and he’d manage to crawl out of the nest for a drink or a bite of fruit, or to sit listless on the balcony edge. But then he’d remember Bluestreak, or a particular scene, or the way pleasure was supposed to feel, and he’d be desperate for it all over again.

It was maddening. It was torture. It was the most brilliant punishment Bluestreak could have ever devised, and Jazz no longer thought of himself as clever for pushing his lover into it. No, he was quite the idiot in fact.

By the time Bluestreak came home, Jazz couldn’t manage anything more coherent than a sobbed plea. He was on his knees, talons kneading the reed-woven floor, head bowed in submission. His thoughts crackled back and forth among Bluestreak and lover and Master, and he couldn’t settle on a single identifier.

“Shhh,” Bluestreak soothed with lovely purrs. “I’ve got you, flitterling. You’ve done so well. I’m so proud of you.”

Jazz clung to him, breathing in his heat, his scent. He adored how big Bluestreak was, one of the larger baras in Kaon flock, so big he could wrap Jazz up easily.

“Can I… Can I…?” He could barely get the request out through how badly he shook.

“Lay back into the pillows now,” Bluestreak ordered, ignoring his request to guide him into their bed. “Come on, flitterling. Hands to the side.”

Jazz obeyed. He trembled to the tips of his feathers, his breathing coming in sharper gasps. He was so hot, so hard. He ached. Pre-fluid streamed from the tip. He shook from the effort of holding himself back.

Bluestreak hovered over him, his expression one of adoration and approval. “Open up,” he said. “Come on, pretty. Spread those thighs for me. Show me how hungry you are.”

Jazz whimpered. He pushed his legs apart, as far as he could manage, feeling cool air rush over him. It teased his seeping, scorching antrum and wisped over his bobbing clava.

He rocked his hips, desperate for stimulation, but there was none to be found.

Bluestreak’s eyes darkened. “Very hungry indeed,” he purred as he knelt between Jazz’s thighs, knees forcing him to stay wide. “You’ve been a good pet, I can tell. Haven’t you?”

Jazz’s claws twisted into the pillows, rending fabric with ease. “Master.”

“I know.” Bluestreak’s tongue swept over his lips. “Pet, look at me. Look into my eyes.”

He met his Master’s gaze and shivered. He felt captured. Taken.

“You want to come?”

More than anything. “Yes, sir,” Jazz gasped.

“Have you earned it?”

Trick question. Jazz had learned how to answer this by now. Because he was a good pet. He knew how to behave, even if he had made the remarkably stupid decision not to do so.

“If you think I did, sir.”

“Good answer.” Bluestreak smiled, so soft and sweet. He leaned over Jazz, though the only part of him that touched Jazz was his knees against Jazz’s thighs. “Yes, you have.”

Jazz whimpered. The pillow beneath his rump was sticky and wet. He had to be soaking everything. He hurt so much.

“So beautiful,” Bluestreak murmured, leaning close enough Jazz could feel the warmth of his exhalations. “My flitterling. So proud of you. Now I want you to do one more thing for me.”

Jazz licked his lips. “Anything.” His breath caught in his throat, his entire body shuddered, hanging on a precipice. He wasn’t above begging. The words danced on the tip of his glossa.

Forget pride. Throw in the trash. Pride didn’t matter anymore. Just this. Just his master. Just Bluestreak.

Blue eyes held his. “Come for me,” Bluestreak ordered. Firm. Unyielding. “Now.”

Jazz shattered.

His head tossed back, his body exploding with pleasure as his clava spurted and his antrum clenched and rippled. He thrashed beneath Bluestreak, barely managing to keep firm hold of the pillows, which turned to fluff beneath his talons.

He might have screamed or shrieked, he didn’t know. He was aware of sounds pouring from his throat, and they might not have been intelligible. Not with the searing ecstasy pouring through his veins, pounding through his core.

He’d never felt anything like this before. Never.

He climbed and climbed to new heights of blistering rapture, until he crashed back into his body, wrecked and shaken. He panted for breath, trembling so hard he rattled several feathers loose. Something was whimpering, and he realized it was him. He felt a warm brush against his forehead and opened his eyes, having not realized he closed them.

Bluestreak had kissed him.

“Damn, that was hot,” Bluestreak said, his eyes so bright and heated. “You are the sexiest harpy I’ve ever seen, Jazz. By Adaptus, I love you. Do you have any idea what you just looked like? All I wanna do is eat you right now, I swear to Adaptus.”

Oh. Right.

Blue always did get chatty when he was pleased.

Jazz hummed. “I did good?” he asked, words slurring.

His tongue didn’t want to work right, apparently. It kept lolling about inside his mouth. His entire body felt limp. He didn’t have the strength to so much as lift a finger.

“So good.” Bluestreak stole his lips for a deep and satisfying kiss, claiming him in one fell swoop.

He nuzzled Jazz’s face, finally lowering his body against Jazz’s, a heavy blanket of heat that drew a low moan out of Jazz.

“Can you take me, flitterling?” Bluestreak asked, his knee nudging against Jazz’s thoroughly soaked antrum.

He moaned and managed a wriggle, unable to lift his arms. His antrum gave a weak pulse, his clit-nub stirring back to life.

“Always.”

He would never not want his master.

Blinding pleasure rang through him again as Bluestreak slid into him, slow and savoring, the heat of him filling Jazz deep, deep inside. Another release rippled through his antrum in steadily building waves. He whimpered, panting air through clenched teeth, Bluestreak’s voice washing over and through his ears, full of promise and reassurance and praise.

Jazz floated in it. Distantly, he felt the pleasure of it all.

Bluestreak’s lips dotted gentle and loving over his forehead. The warmth off him cradled Jazz, and Bluestreak was love. Bluestreak was safety.

Bluestreak was home.

[FoF] Seven Days 06

Day Five

Morning arrived and Jazz tried to focus on their usual routine, even if Bluestreak left out the part where they usually began the day with an orgasm or two. Jazz was left to be content with a few chaste kisses and hugs, light conversation shared over their bowl of breakfast fruit, while he squirmed and tried to ignore the press of the plug in his antrum.

He went to sleep slick, he woke slick. The feathers between his thighs were tacky with slick. He’d need an actual soak before the day was through, rather than a cursory wipedown with the washbasin. His clava was a dull throb, barely hidden within its sheath. Their nest was a mess that reeked of arousal. He should probably think about laundering it as well.

Bluestreak was smiling and perky, chattering on about the training he would be doing with Drift today. He was adorable, and Jazz wanted him with every beat of his core. The plug, however, was an arousing reminder of his punishment.

He braced himself for another day pretending he wasn’t on the edge of release, when Bluestreak pulled him into his lap and kissed him soundly.

“I think you’ve been well-behaved,” he murmured with a stroke down Jazz’s back, his lips painting kisses over Jazz’s forehead and the rise of his cheeks.

“Can I come?” Jazz asked, hopeful, his insides twisting into knots of want.

Bluestreak chuckled. “No.” His palm slid between their bodies, fingers stroking over the flared end of the plug, making a lewd sound as he fiddled with it. “But I’m convinced I can remove this now. Though I’ll keep it on hand in case you feel the need to… misbehave again.”

“I won’t,” Jazz said, in a rush.

“I believe you.” Bluestreak hummed and kissed him again, tasting like orange marmalade and pears, his tongue soft and exploring.

Jazz moaned into the kiss, his hips rolling against Bluestreak’s fingers, his clava threatening to emerge. His antrum rippled around the plug, and his moan gained pitch as he felt it slide from within him, each sphere catching on the walls of his antrum and sending waves of heat through his body.

It was a torment. It was a tease. It was a relief to finally have the plug free, but it left Jazz feeling empty and aching.

“Not much longer now, flitterling,” Bluestreak promised with a lingering kiss and an embrace. “I trust you’ll behave.”

“Course I will,” Jazz replied with a grin and a wink and more bravado than he actually felt. He swallowed down the need, pretended his knees didn’t shake with the urge to come, and that his groin wasn’t a throbbing wave of hungry heat.

They went their respective ways to their separate duties, and Jazz found somewhere to hide and growl his frustration. He went to the training room when he knew no one else would be there and demolished three practice dummies. He took a long soak in the hot springs because he stank of arousal, and while it helped, it did nothing to quell the need.

He watched Blurr and Starscream kiss from across the room and a wave of thick-green jealousy slid poisonous into his veins.

Drift and Perceptor were canoodling in the hot springs, making eyes at anyone who looked like they sought an adventurous experience, and all it did was remind Jazz of the conversation he and Bluestreak once had. A tentative discussion, if you would, regarding possibly engaging in a quartet.

Jazz walked past Liege Megatron’s nest just in time to catch the sound of someone having a very good afternoon and honestly! The middle of the day? Didn’t Megatron have duties to attend? Surely he could keep his hands off his mate?

He went to visit Soundwave to drop off a report, and walked in on the Speaker with a bright yellow twin in his lap, and a bright red one draped across his back. Jazz scowled and promptly walked right back out.

It wasn’t even mating season. Had the whole flock conspired to remind Jazz of the pleasure he wasn’t allowed to have?

“Where’s your brother?” Jazz demanded as he stalked into the clinic and cornered First Aid behind the counter.

First Aid blinked at him, eyebrows raised, gaze flicking between Jazz and his carrier, who Jazz probably should have noticed, too. “Which one?”

“Which one do you think?” Jazz asked. His tail twitched, and he quickly flicked it up and over an arm before someone stepped on it.

Again.

Ratchet snorted. “Bluestreak is in weapons storage. He’s on maintenance duty today.” He eyed Jazz, and his eyebrows tried to climb into his feather crest. “I’d ask what you two are getting up to now, but I honestly don’t want to know.” He spun on a tarsal and stalked away, and Jazz could have sworn he muttered,

“All of my children are deviants.”

Jazz would have laughed, if he wasn’t so out of his mind aroused at the moment.

“Carrier’s right,” First Aid said as he bent over a leatherbound book of some kind. “Blue’s in weapons storage. And I believe he’s alone.” He looked up with an exaggerated wink.

Their entire family was odd. But that’s what happened when one-third of the unusual threesome used to be human, one-third was a smol who couldn’t decide if he were bara or not, and the other third was a former Liege who couldn’t quite manage to shake the idea people should defer to him.

“Thanks,” Jazz said, and made himself scarce because Ratchet might not have been interested in what Blue and Jazz were up to, but First Aid had no such compunctions about little things like boundaries. He’d ask, and he’d want details.

Jazz indeed found Bluestreak in the weapons locker, and relief sagged his shoulders when he found his lover alone. The heavy drape of the door fell behind him, and Bluestreak looked up from where he was sharpening a short sword.

“Hey, flitterling.” Bluestreak smiled. “Here to check out a weapon or two?”

Jazz flitted around to Bluestreak’s side of the table, eyes hungrily devouring the shape of his master. Beautiful grey-blue feathers, bright blue eyes, broad shoulders, sturdy tail, big hands. Just the sight of him made need yaw in his belly.

He took the short sword from Bluestreak and set it on the table. He grabbed Bluestreak’s hand and tugged him toward the narrow hall leading to the actual storage room of shelves and brackets and disassembled weapons.

Behind him, Bluestreak chuckled. “Oh, I see. Not that kind of weapon.”

Jazz stayed quiet, lest the pleas spill out of his mouth first. He cornered Bluestreak into the storage room, guided him back against the shelves, and then he knelt, nuzzling Bluestreak’s groin and purring.

Fingers carded through his feathers as Bluestreak rumbled his approval. “This is a nice surprise,” he said as his clava emerged, and Jazz greeted it with a quick lick.

Jazz hummed and sucked Bluestreak into his mouth. He wanted to take it slow and careful, wanted to linger and savor, but Bluestreak was on the clock and anyone could come back here looking for whoever was on duty. He had to make this quick.

Luckily, Jazz knew more than a few tricks.

Bluestreak spilled into his mouth in a matter of minutes, bitten off whimpers hidden behind a knuckle clenched between his teeth, and his other hand clamped on Jazz’s shoulder, talons digging tight. Jazz suckled him gently, getting every last drop, and then he let Bluestreak slip free of his mouth. He nuzzled Bluestreak’s groin, purred in his throat, his hands curled around Bluestreak’s knee.

He pressed his cheek to Bluestreak’s hip, and he looked up at his lover, tongue wetting his lips, eyes a perfectly seductive gleam in the firelight.

“Will you forgive me?” he asked, because the taste of Bluestreak lingered on his tongue, and his belly tightened with want, and he was so slick between his thighs, he’d probably dripped on the floor.

Bluestreak slid down the wall, his hands cupping Jazz’s face. He leaned in for a soft and sweet kiss, and a ripple of relief flooded Jazz’s veins. Yes, he was sure of it. This was forgiveness. Bluestreak would cease this ridiculous notion of denying Jazz pleasure. He’d earned it.

Bluestreak gifted a kiss to each of the corners of Jazz’s mouth. He pressed their foreheads together.

“No,” he said, and stood up, tugging Jazz along with him. “Nice try, flitterling. But your punishment stands. It’s only two more days.” He slipped a hand between Jazz’s thighs, palm cupping the swollen heat of him, tasting the slick with the pads of his fingertips. “No matter how sweet you are, how ready for me, how much I want you, I have to be firm else you’ll never behave. Understand?”

The heel of his palm ground against Jazz’s nub. He keened, knees wobbling, and tipped forward, slumping against Bluestreak’s body. He clung to Bluestreak’s sides, hips rocking, grinding along the slick-damp palm.

“Please,” he said, near-sobbing, because it felt so damned good, and he couldn’t do a thing about it. His antrum throbbed, his clava filled so fast it hurt. “I’ll be good. I’ll be so, so good.”

“I know you will.” Bluestreak pressed a kiss to the top of his head, palm applying a steady pressure, as the need tightened and coiled deep within him.

Jazz whined. He pressed his face to Bluestreak’s chest and inhaled the scent of his lover, that mix of hot springs and warm sun and sweet things. He clutched at Bluestreak’s sides, and tried not to thrust against Bluestreak’s thigh, his clava rigid and leaking, his knees pressing inward to quell the throb of his antrum.

“One more day,” Bluestreak murmured as he crushed Jazz against him, and the strength of his embrace felt like a promise.

[FoF] Seven Days 05

Day Four

The plug was torture of the most erotic kind. It shifted with every move Jazz made, nudging over every sensitive spot within him. It stole his breath, made him gasp mid-stride, and it kept him on the simmering edge of need with every passing moment.

He stayed seated if he could, to avoid the stirring sensations, and didn’t let anyone get too close so they couldn’t see the flush in his cheeks, or smell the arousal on him. Most didn’t notice. A few weren’t fooled.

He could have lived without knowingly Whirl cackling at him.

His day dragged on and on, and Jazz would have cheered when it was time for dinner and to go back to his nest and his lover, if he’d had the energy. But the plug kept him on edge, he was jittery and hungry for something more than food, and as much as he wanted to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness, his pride won out.

Sooner or later, he intended to dropkick his damned pride into the nearest ocean.

Ratchet caught him squirming and gave him the longest, most despairing look Jazz had ever seen from a healer. “Do I even want to know?” he asked.

“Probably not,” Jazz said with his best, most sparkling grin. Ratchet, unlike his two mates, wasn’t particularly interested in the sexual exploits of his children. He had a bit more shame than his mates.

Ratchet made a face that nearly crossed the line into disgust. “Are you injured?” he asked, tone flat. In the question was the implication “do I need to have another conversation with my child about understanding the limits of his sub?”

Jazz shook his head and backed away slowly, hoping Ratchet wouldn’t look down his body, because unlike everyone else, Ratchet knew a plug when he saw one.

“Not in a manner that needs a healer,” Jazz chirped.

Ratchet hid his face behind his palm. “Please. Just go,” he said.

Jazz went.

He kept to the shadows and the ceilings, skittering in amongst the woven branches as best he could. There were times he’d despaired of his size, which was tiny even for a smol, and with the most unhelpful, long tail. Add to that his visual sensitivity to light, and Jazz wondered what use he could ever be for his flock.

That was when Nightshade discovered him, playing hide and seek with other fledges his age. He’d been the one to suggest Jazz use his size to his advantage, and he’d invited Jazz to the subvertive agent program.

Life changed for Jazz after that. Arguably better, occasionally worse, depending on one’s point of view.

He’d sworn off romance while he worked for Nightshade. He was rarely home, he was always in danger, and he didn’t want to worry about attachment. He had friends, playthings, other baras and smols who were happy to have him for a night. He thought that was enough.

Until Bluestreak swept into his life.

Nothing had been the same since.

Jazz wouldn’t change a thing either. He was living his best life with Bluestreak. He couldn’t be happier.

Well.

Maybe a little bit.

Because that night, Bluestreak spilled into Jazz’s mouth, licked him clean, then pulled him close to sleep. He wrapped his arms around Jazz, thick feathers a warm cocoon, and tucked Jazz under his chin.

“Good night, flitterling,” he murmured.

There was no sign of forgiveness. No sigh of him reaching for Jazz’s plug and granting him relief.

Jazz squirmed. He was hard and aching, his clava tip rubbing against Bluestreak’s thigh. His antrum seeped, muscles fluttering around the plug while his slick stained his featherdown. He could smell his own arousal and taste Bluestreak on his tongue.

He loved Bluestreak, but this was a special kind of torture.

“… Blue?” he ventured, on the cusp of begging, but not quite there. He had his pride, damn it. He was a warrior, a fighter, a fearsome spy. He would not be defeated by a little piece of polished wood.

“Hmm?”

“Am I forgiven?” At least for the plug. Dear Adaptus, at least could he be free of the taunt of the plug.

Bluestreak shifted and his thigh rubbed Jazz’s clava, sending a buzz of pleasure down his spine. He gasped, clutching at his younger mate, his hips rocking against Blue’s thigh. The plug shifted and nudged, sending another wave of want through Jazz’s groin.

“No,” Bluestreak said, his tone firm and unyielding. “You still lack self-control.”

Jazz whimpered. He ached. He wanted to beg. Just one release?

He gnawed on his bottom lip.

“Yes, sir.” His voice came out too small. Defeated. It simultaneously exhausted him and made him salivate.

By Adaptus, but Bluestreak’s mastery of him was so total, so enveloping, it was intoxicating. How did he do it?

“You can wait, can’t you?” Bluestreak rubbed him again, the tease. “It’s only a couple more days. Surely a grown bird like you can control himself. Yes?”

Damn him.

“Yes, sir. I can.” Jazz forced himself to be still, though all he wanted to do was rock against his bara mate and seek completion.

“Or do you need a drink?”

Another out was offered. Another opportunity to cease his punishment, if it was too much for him to handle. A chance to call an end to their little game if Jazz was no longer having any fun. Unfortunately, that was the problem.

This didn’t hurt. It was merely infuriatingly frustrating, and he wanted to find release, but he also wanted to prove he didn’t need one.

“I’m fine,” Jazz lied instead.

“I’m proud of you.” Bluestreak kissed the top of his head, nuzzling against his crest. Joy bloomed within Jazz’s core at the compliment, only to shrink when Bluestreak followed it up with a warning, “I’d better not catch you pillow-riding again though.”

“Yes, sir,” Jazz sighed the sigh of the defeated. He had no doubt Bluestreak would be watching him too closely from now on.

“Good night, Master.”

“Rest well, my flitterling,” Bluestreak replied, his tone warm and affectionate and dripping with ownership.

Jazz purred.

He tried not to squirm. He wanted to come so badly he could taste that sweet release.
But denial was his punishment and by Adaptus was it effective. It was only a couple more days. He could do this.

Jazz was having too much fun to ruin it now.

~