[IDW] A Perfect Storm 01/16
Apr. 8th, 2019 06:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: A Perfect Storm
Universe: TF G1/IDW
Characters: Blurr, Jazz, Bluestreak, Ricochet, Prowl, Rodimus, Drift, Ratchet
Pairings: Blurr/Jazz, Blurr/Ricochet, Blurr/Ricochet/Jazz, Ricochet/Jazz, Bluestreak/Jazz, Drift/Ratchet,
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Twincest, Mechpreg, Canon Typical Violence
Description: Blurr happens to enjoy life on post-war Cybertron, but when a serial murderer starts targeting former Wreckers, Blurr ends up saddled with a bodyguard who rubs him in all the wrong ways. Or right ways, if you were to ask Ricochet. Let the battle begin.
Commission for MamaBlurr.
Chapter One
Bars were, in Jazz’s opinion, some of the best places to think.
Especially midday when most mechs were at their duties or their jobs, and the majority of the tables were empty of patrons, except people who didn’t want to be bothered. Jazz was one such mech. He wanted the atmosphere -- the smell of engex, the low murmur of noise and music, the dim lights and the friendly company -- but he didn’t want the rest of it.
He needed to concentrate. He needed to focus. He was in one Pit of a fragged up situation.
“Refill?”
“Primus, yes,” Jazz groaned as he set down one datapad and picked up another, flicking through the same notes and observations he’d read a dozen times already. “Maybe I’ll get smarter if I get drunker.”
Bluestreak snorted and swept up his empty cube, replacing it with a fresh one. “I don’t think it works that way.”
Jazz grabbed the engex and examined it with a keen optic. “Maybe if I try real hard…”
Bluestreak laughed quietly, and Jazz pretended he didn’t notice the way it made his spinal strut tingle. “The hard work should be focused on the clues and reports.” His sensory panels gave a little twitch as he leaned in, the scent of his wax cloaking him in an enticing aroma. He peered over Jazz’s shoulder at the datapad. “How many?”
“Five so far.” Jazz sighed. Typically, he wouldn’t show classified information to a civvie, but Bluestreak didn’t count as one, retired as he might be from the Autobot army. He was a bartender now, but training didn’t get erased because of retirement.
“What makes you think they’re connected?”
Jazz tapped the edge of a datapad. “These are skilled, well-trained mechs. They aren’t dying in muggings or random robberies or accidents. They’re being executed.” He glanced at a different datapad. “Springer’s the only survivor so far, and Ratch isn’t sure he’ll make it.”
Bluestreak frowned and leaned closer, his chassis brushing Jazz’s shoulder, and the shiver of anticipation that sent through Jazz was wholly inappropriate in the moment. “Springer,” he repeated, and his optics narrowed. He pointed to one datapad after another. “Pyro. Rotorstorm. Quickstrike. Hubcap.”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t see it?”
“Should I?” Jazz took a long gulp of his engex. It no longer burned, but it settled warm and comforting in his tanks. He was losing his mind with this case, and part of him wished he hadn’t taken it off Prowl’s hands.
But he also wanted to stop feeling useless, and something this complicated and politically dangerous couldn’t be handled by anyone else.
“They’re all Wreckers,” Bluestreak said. “Or were anyway since the Wreckers were disbanded once the truce went into effect.” He straightened, and Jazz told himself not to mourn the distance.
Jazz cycled his optics behind his visor and tugged the datapads closer, reading through the bios of the five mechs again. Springer was obvious. So were Pyro and Rotorstorm, but somehow, he’d missed that in Quickstrike because the mech had served much longer in one of Prowl’s adjacent special ops units.
But Bluestreak was right. Every single one of the mechs attacked had spent a portion of their Autobot service as a Wrecker.
He shouldn’t have missed it.
Primus, he was tired.
“Blue, you’re a genius.” Jazz downed the rest of his engex and started dumping datapads into multiple compartments. He had to get this information to Prowl as soon as possible.
There were a lot more Wreckers on Cybertron right now, since Rodimus Prime had called back every unit he could get a hold of. Most mechs came home. Most didn’t mind the disbanding of their various units. People wanted to embrace peace, they wanted to stop fighting.
Jazz could think of at least a dozen former Wreckers off the top of his head. Potential targets now. If this killer was truly targeting Wreckers, then something had to be done. To warn them, protect them.
And find the mech responsible.
Bluestreak swept the second empty cube from the table. “You’d have figured it out eventually, I’m sure. Tell Prowl I said ‘hello’.” He balanced the tray in one hand, leaving Jazz with a wink.
Jazz absolutely didn’t watch Bluestreak walk away, offering a smile to another patron at a table as he picked up empty cubes before slipping back behind the bar. It was a slow, slow day, which was why Blurr was at home, and Bluestreak was the only one working.
There were other bars on Cybertron, in Autobot City, but Jazz preferred this one, New Maccadam’s. Not only because he played here most weekends and made it great on tips and even occasionally popped behind the bar to spell whoever was on duty, and not only because one of his best friends owned the place.
It might have had something to do with Bluestreak. Not that Jazz would ever admit it aloud.
Some embarrassing secrets were better kept secret.
~
Prowl was not having a good month.
He was perpetually running a week behind on his paperwork -- something he’d manage to maintain even during the war. His Prime kept vanishing for secret rendezvous with the Decepticon Winglord, rendezvous he thought Prowl knew nothing about. And someone was murdering Autobots in his city, under his nose, and making little attempt to hide it.
His best spy had yet to find Prowl a perpetrator no matter how much Prowl pushed him, and pretty soon, the lid on this boiling cauldron would fly right off.
Granted, this was better than war. But then, most things were.
Prowl sighed and tossed down his stylus. His head ached, he’d read the same line three times, and he had accomplished nothing. He needed to rest, recharge, refuel. He needed to not be at his desk for three more hours.
He logged off his computer and shut it down. He glared at the stack of datapads on the corner of his desk, long overdue, and decided that since Rodimus Prime didn’t read them on time anyway, why should he worry about taking them home?
Prowl stepped out from behind his desk, flicking his sensory panels to ease a cramp in the hinge. He thought longingly of the bottle of newly brewed Protohex Eddy sitting by his berthside.
His door whooshed open, and Prowl drew up short, blinking. That was supposed to be locked.
Then Jazz strode inside with a slag-eating grin, and that explained everything. Or at least part of it. There were few mechs capable of effortlessly hacking Prowl’s locks.
“The Wreckers,” he declared, gesturing at Prowl with a datapad.
Prowl sighed and scrubbed his forehead. “They’re disbanded, remember? I’m not allowed to use them anymore.” Which was a shame, because he could have made great use of them given the current state of affairs. An expendable, highly trained fighting force was worth twice its weight in clear-mined energon.
“That’s not what I meant.” Jazz huffed and slapped him in the chassis with the datapad. “The victims. They’re all Wreckers.”
Prowl blinked.
He took the datapad and flicked it on, surveying the details of the investigation again, this time with the new information. Jazz was right. So far, every mech killed had spent a portion of their Autobot service in the Wreckers regiment, significant or otherwise.
“Who’s doing it?” Prowl asked.
“I don’t know yet. But it’s only a matter of time. Now that I got a pattern, I can figure out a motive and figure out who. Until then…” Jazz shifted from foot to foot and wiggled one hand from side to side. “You gotta warn the rest of the Wreckers on planet.”
Prowl frowned. “Warn them?”
Jazz’s visor flickered. “That someone out there is killing Wreckers? They need to know to look out for themselves. We gotta get them some protection or something.”
“And cause a panic?”
“Better they know!”
Prowl’s engine revved. Jazz glared at him. Here they were, back to their usual stances, on one side of a very thin line.
Prowl rubbed his forehead again, the ache behind his optics sharp and pulsing. “Individually,” he conceded. “Warn them quietly. Arrange for protection to those who want it. But if you want to save their sparks, the quickest way to do so is to catch the mech responsible.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that.” Jazz scowled and snatched his datapad from Prowl’s hand. He nearly took a layer of paint with it. “Don’t worry, Prowl. I’ll keep yer precious peace. It’s what you’re paying me for.”
He spun on a heelstrut and stormed out of the room with as much anger as he could muster given the door opened for him and closed quietly. Emotional, that one could be, though Primus knew he allowed only a select few to see it. Prowl wondered when he’d started qualifying.
Perhaps the moment he and Jazz agreed they were friends. Not that anyone else would be able to qualify their association as friendship. It was unique.
Prowl sighed. He thought longingly of his bottle of Protohex Eddy. And then he turned and went back to his desk, logging back into the network to pull up every file on every Autobot who had ever served as a Wrecker.
There had to be something in their mission reports, their histories, to explain why someone was trying to murder them. There were nanobytes of data crammed into the system. It would take him hours to go through all of the reports and start forming cross-referenced database.
Needs must.
Prowl set his jaw and got to work.
~
Blurr’s leg bounced up and down, up and down. He clicked through the channels, too fast to pay much attention, knowing he wasn’t going to be able to focus on anything anyway. Sound flashed by, little snippets of conversation.
Boring, boring, boring.
Blurr sighed and thumped his head back against the top of the couch. Maybe he should go ahead and go into work. He wasn’t accomplishing anything at home. He wasn’t busy or otherwise occupied.
He was bored. Tracks was busy. Jazz was working. Drift was off-planet on his “honeymoon” with Ratchet -- who’d been dragged almost kicking and screaming, no less, Doc was a little allergic to rest and relaxation.
Blurr had no choice but to be alone, and he didn’t like it one bit. He wanted to be entertained and none of his playmates were available.
Bounce, bounce, bounce.
Blurr shot up from the couch. He would go for a run, see if there was anyone worth a challenge out there.
He made it two quick steps to the door before it chimed at him. Oh, thank Primus.
Blurr flung the door open without bothering to check the ident code of his visitor. A familiar black and white frame came into view, the flash of a blue visor putting a huge grin on Blurr’s face.
“Tell me you’re off shift,” Blurr demanded.
“Technically.” Jazz’s grin was easy and sexy, and Blurr wanted to taste it. “But I’m still working. Ya know how it is.”
Blurr snorted, snagged Jazz by the shoulder, and tugged him inside. “Work later. Berthroom now.”
Jazz stumbled along with him, a laugh spilling from his lips. “What? You’re not even going to buy me dinner first? What kinda mech you think I am?”
“As easy as I am.” Blurr crowded Jazz against the wall and kissed him, a shiver of want spilling up his backstrut as Jazz opened to the kiss, their glossa meeting in a hot tangle.
Yes. This. This right here was exactly what Blurr’s fractured attention span wanted.
He hummed and grabbed Jazz’s hips, pulling him in for a nice grind of metal on metal, heat pooling southward. Jazz’s field stroked along his with tendrils of electric fire, and a moan rattled in Blurr’s intake.
“I actually came here for somethin’ important,” Jazz said, but he grabbed Blurr’s aft and rocked right back, charge flicking between their frames in bright bursts. He nibbled on Blurr’s lips, head tilting upward into the kiss, his vents puffing heat back at Blurr.
“Later,” Blurr insisted against Jazz’s mouth, and nudged a knee between his thighs, giving Jazz something to grind against. The hot press of Jazz’s clearly eager frame was intoxicating. .
“‘Kay,” Jazz said, beautifully pliant.
Blurr laughed and yanked Jazz away from the wall. Not that he was averse to fragging the gorgeous spy here in the entryway. He had, after all, done it before. But a berth would be preferable. If he could be comfortable, he wanted to be.
Post-war peace-time had spoiled him.
“Are you feelin’ neglected there, racer-boy?” Jazz asked with a chuckle as he let himself be pulled. His field slid over Blurr’s, electric-fire prickling at Blurr’s sensor net and flooding him with heat.
“More like bored.” Blurr flicked the lights to fifty-percent and swung Jazz back into his arms, holding the spy’s chin with both hands to devour him with a kiss.
He knew he’d applied the right kind of pressure when Jazz moaned, gripped at his wrists, and struggled to stay standing. His field flickered and wavered, then clung to Blurr’s stickily. Hungrily. Arousal tangibly wafted around him.
Blurr grinned. “But you’ll entertain me, right?”
“I’m not a toy,” Jazz muttered, but he backed toward the berth and towed Blurr with him, his panels springing open, the glitter of his biolights as inviting as his field.
“Does that mean I can’t play with you?” Blurr teased as his mouth filled with lubricant. He grabbed Jazz’s hips, hoisting his aft onto the bed with Jazz’s assistance, and nudged his way between Jazz’s thighs.
Valve lights blinked up at him in arrhythmic pulses. Lubricant shone wetly within the depths of Jazz’s valve, and Blurr wanted to taste him.
He hummed and cradled Jazz’s hips, leaning forward to give Jazz a long, savoring lick. A hissed vent erupted from Jazz’s vents, his backstrut curving as he fisted the berth cover. Biolights glittered invitingly.
“If you keep doing that, then it’s okay with me.” Jazz threw his legs up over Blurr’s shoulders, calves tugging him up to ride Blurr’s face.
Blurr grinned and licked Jazz again, licked deep into the center of him, lapping up the sweetness of his lubricant. Jazz shivered and rocked against his mouth, his valve swelling and biolights eagerly dancing. He pawed at Blurr’s crest, trying to direct his head where Jazz wanted it most.
Blurr resisted. He licked Jazz’s rim, tasting every one of the microsensors before he latched lips and denta on Jazz’s anterior node and added pressure, just enough for Jazz’s sensornet to feel it.
“Frag!” Jazz yelped and jerked hard against Blurr’s mouth, his vents flaring in a wide burst of air.
“Too much?” Blurr asked as he flicked the tip of his glossa over the throbbing nub, knowing good and well that wasn’t the problem.
Jazz’s visor flashed blue at him. He growled, “You know it slag-well wasn’t.” His feet drummed Blurr’s upper back. “Again.”
Blurr licked his lips and tilted his head, savoring the taste of Jazz. “Nope.” He popped the word and slid two fingers into Jazz’s valve instead, curving them to rub fiercely on the cluster of microsensors right behind his rim.
Charge danced over Jazz’s armor, and he writhed on the berth, leg tires setting into a lazy spin. His headlights flickered, head tilting back to bare the column of his intake.
Blurr’s panel popped, his spike emerging with a throb of want. Arousal coiled heavy in his groin, setting into a dull, demanding pulse. He stroked Jazz again, soaked in the sight of him writhing, before he put a knee on the berth.
He mouthed a blinking headlight first, crawling over Jazz, the spy’s legs falling to curl around his hips, tugging him into position. His spikehead bumped over a dripping valve, and they both shivered.
“You need more playmates.” Jazz hooked his fingers in Blurr’s seams and tried to tug him closer, angle him better.
“I need the ones I have to be more available,” Blurr corrected with a laugh. He bit Jazz’s intake, denta applying enough pressure to leave a mark. It would be gone by morning.
Jazz shuddered, his visor flashing and his field spiking with volcanic need. He drummed his heels on the back of Blurr’s thighs. “Well, maybe if you weren’t such a damned tease-- ah!”
Blurr sank forward, filling Jazz to the hilt in one quick thrust. Calipers fluttered and rippled around him. Charge spilled out of Jazz’s nodes, feeding into Blurr’s sensors. He groaned as slick heat clamped around his spike.
He buried deep and lingered, grinding hard on Jazz's ceiling node. Jazz's valve squeezed and flexed around him. More charge erupted from beneath Jazz's armor, and he grabbed Blurr's sides, fingers digging into his seams.
"More," Jazz demanded, thighs pressing inward, squeezing.
"You're too damn bossy," Blurr panted and curved forward, stealing Jazz's lips to silence the demands.
He retreated and plunged in again, hard and fast thrusts, driving into Jazz as fierce and deep as the spy wanted it. A whine spilled from Jazz's intake, his hands scrabbling over Blurr's armor, head falling back to bare his intake again.
Blurr took advantage, falling upon it with lips and denta. Electric fire zipped up and down his backstrut as he took Jazz's valve again and again, the calipers squeezing tight and nodes erupting charge over his sensors. His spike throbbed, pleasure twisting and churning in his gut, tightening into a spring that demanded release.
Jazz gasped and bucked beneath him, his field tingling over Blurr's frame in a wave of static fire. His thighs clamped harder, metal skidding against metal, his spike jutting free with an audible snick, the tip of it scrubbing over Blurr's abdominal armor. He left smears of prefluid on Blurr's plating.
"Yeah, but ya still gave me more," Jazz said, a cocky grin on his lips that made Blurr's engine rev.
"I have terrible impulse control." Blurr braced his weight on one hand and wrapped his fingers around Jazz's spike with the other, giving him a squeeze.
Jazz made a strangled noise and sank his fingers into Blurr's seam, pressing hard on the cables beneath. A shock of pleasure rippled across Blurr's sensory net. He moaned and bit down on Jazz's intake again, pinning a cable between his denta, the rapid flutter of Jazz's spark beat dancing against his lips.
"I'm fond of your lack of it," Jazz groaned and bucked up against him, hips rising to meet each of Blurr's thrusts, his vents rapid and straining.
Blurr squeezed his spike and stroked him faster, his fingers painted in streaks of pre-fluid as Jazz writhed beneath him. His head tossed back again, charge erupting from beneath his armor, before he overloaded, valve clamping tight and spike spurting over Blurr's fist.
Jazz keened, blue charge dancing over his armor in a beautiful wave as his valve clutched and spat electric heat over Blurr’s spike. It cycled down, pulling him deeper. Blurr groaned, both hands gripping Jazz’s hips to yank him into each thrust, bearing Jazz down into the berth.
The coil tightened inside of him, twisting and twisting, holding a tension near to bursting. Blurr groaned, head tilting forward, vents coming in sharp bursts. He thrust, again and again, the berth creaking, Jazz’s hands scraping at his armor, and it wasn’t until he focused past the roaring in his audials that he heard Jazz chanting, “yes, yes, yes!”
Jazz’s valve clutched hungrily at his spike, feeding him burst after burst of charge. A surge of electricity spat out of his nodes, zapping Blurr’s sensors, and he shattered. He slammed into Jazz, holding himself deep. Spurts of transfluid painted Jazz’s valve, and Blurr circled his hips, grinding the base of his array against Jazz’s.
Claws sank into his side seams, lightly pricking the cables beneath, a brief stab of pain to flavor the ecstasy. Jazz’s head tossed back as he overloaded again, circuits tripped on the charge-loop between their units.
Awareness went hot-white. Blurr groaned, long and low, and collapsed forward, vents whirring and frame trembling as overload left him twitching and spent. Jazz shoved at his shoulders, grumbling a protest.
“Get off.”
“I just did.” Blurr chuckled and used the last of his strength to tip to the side, sliding out of Jazz and sprawling across his oversized berth. A pleasant langor started to set in, and he soaked it up.
Much better entertainment. So much better.
“Yeah, the mess between my thighs is proof,” Jazz drawled. He socked Blurr on the shoulder, pulled himself a bit further on the berth, and sprawled over the remaining space, thighs splayed, messy array on display.
Blurr hummed and slid a palm over Jazz’s thigh, fingers gently stroking the mess around his valve rim. “Another round?”
“Give me a fragging minute.” The back of Jazz’s hand thwapped his shoulder. “I did come here for a reason. Gotta talk to you.”
“Talking should be the last thing on your mind.” Blurr propped his head up with his free hand, though he left the other to idly stroke Jazz’s sensitive nodes, provoking a shiver. “But whatever. What’s so important you had to rush over here?”
Jazz wriggled away from his hand, though there was reluctance in his field. “You’re in danger.”
Blurr snorted and took his hand back, wiggling his fingers to watch the glimmer of lubricant across them. “Sure I am.”
“I’m serious.”
“From what?”
“I don’t know yet.” Jazz sat up and scooted off the berth before spinning back around to face Blurr. “Someone’s killing Wreckers which means you’re on the list.”
“I’m not a Wrecker anymore,” Blurr pointed out.
“Technically no one is. They’re disbanded. That’s not stopping this maniac though.” Jazz sighed and brushed ineffectually at the lubricant painting his thighs. “Springer’s in the medcenter. They almost got him.”
Blurr frowned. That was news to him. Springer was a pretty well-known and popular Autobot. If he was attacked and under medical care, why didn’t everyone know?
This had Prowl written all over it.
Still.
“I think you’re overestimating my relevance. I was barely a Wrecker.” Most Autobots didn’t remember he’d been one. Blurr was more famous for what he was before the war, not during it, and only a little bit in the aftermath. He hadn’t made much of a name for himself as a soldier.
Jazz scrubbed a hand over his forehead. Someone needed to tell him he looked an awful lot like Prowl when he did that. “I want you to have some backup.”
“I don’t follow.” Blurr sat up. He suspected there would be no round two. The mood was gone.
“Backup. A bodyguard preferably.” Jazz started to pace, one hand on his chin, still talking but not so much at Blurr as thinking aloud. “You live alone. Your address is publically known and so is your schedule. You’re an easy target. I’ll have to find someone with an equal skillset who isn’t a target themselves.”
Blurr slid off the berth, intercepting Jazz mid-pace. “I don’t want a bodyguard. I don’t need one. I can take care of myself.”
“But ya can’t watch yer own back,” Jazz said, jabbing Blurr in the chestplate. His accent betrayed his anxiety.
Any other time, it would have been cute.
Blurr folded his arms and set his jaw. “No.”
“Blurr, I’m bein’ serious here.”
“So am I!” He chuffed a vent and walked out of the berthroom, unsurprised when Jazz followed. “Don’t waste your resources on me. I’m fine. Go look after some other mech. I’ve got this.” He beelined for the washrack, the lubricant and other fluids drying tacky and sticky on his armor. “Now come on. Let’s wash up, and get back to something fun.”
Jazz loitered in the doorway of the washrack -- it was smaller than Blurr would have liked, but being as most mechs had to trek to a communal one, he wasn’t going to complain. Blurr couldn’t read the look in Jazz’s visor either. Sometimes, he turned inscrutable again, better resembling the Spec Ops mech who haunted many a Decepticon nightmare, rather than the amiable singer who often played in Blurr’s bar.
“Nah,” Jazz said, leaning against the jamb. “I’m still workin’, and I got others to warn. Maybe I’ll come back for that second round.”
Blurr spiraled his optics into a small, suspicious squint. “You’re angry.”
Jazz waved him off. “No, I’m thinkin’. If you’re gonna be stubborn about this, then that means I gotta find the mech doin’ this ASAP, or I’m gonna lose my favorite berth partner.” Half his visor fluttered in a wink Blurr didn’t believe for a second.
He’d known Jazz long enough to know that when his accent slipped, it was because he was swallowing down an emotion he didn’t want others to read. Probably fury in this case.
“Suit yourself.” Blurr shrugged and flicked on the spray, tepid solvent rapidly warming to hot, filling the room with steam.
Jazz was gone by the time he turned back around.
Solo shower it was.
***
Universe: TF G1/IDW
Characters: Blurr, Jazz, Bluestreak, Ricochet, Prowl, Rodimus, Drift, Ratchet
Pairings: Blurr/Jazz, Blurr/Ricochet, Blurr/Ricochet/Jazz, Ricochet/Jazz, Bluestreak/Jazz, Drift/Ratchet,
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Twincest, Mechpreg, Canon Typical Violence
Description: Blurr happens to enjoy life on post-war Cybertron, but when a serial murderer starts targeting former Wreckers, Blurr ends up saddled with a bodyguard who rubs him in all the wrong ways. Or right ways, if you were to ask Ricochet. Let the battle begin.
Commission for MamaBlurr.
Bars were, in Jazz’s opinion, some of the best places to think.
Especially midday when most mechs were at their duties or their jobs, and the majority of the tables were empty of patrons, except people who didn’t want to be bothered. Jazz was one such mech. He wanted the atmosphere -- the smell of engex, the low murmur of noise and music, the dim lights and the friendly company -- but he didn’t want the rest of it.
He needed to concentrate. He needed to focus. He was in one Pit of a fragged up situation.
“Refill?”
“Primus, yes,” Jazz groaned as he set down one datapad and picked up another, flicking through the same notes and observations he’d read a dozen times already. “Maybe I’ll get smarter if I get drunker.”
Bluestreak snorted and swept up his empty cube, replacing it with a fresh one. “I don’t think it works that way.”
Jazz grabbed the engex and examined it with a keen optic. “Maybe if I try real hard…”
Bluestreak laughed quietly, and Jazz pretended he didn’t notice the way it made his spinal strut tingle. “The hard work should be focused on the clues and reports.” His sensory panels gave a little twitch as he leaned in, the scent of his wax cloaking him in an enticing aroma. He peered over Jazz’s shoulder at the datapad. “How many?”
“Five so far.” Jazz sighed. Typically, he wouldn’t show classified information to a civvie, but Bluestreak didn’t count as one, retired as he might be from the Autobot army. He was a bartender now, but training didn’t get erased because of retirement.
“What makes you think they’re connected?”
Jazz tapped the edge of a datapad. “These are skilled, well-trained mechs. They aren’t dying in muggings or random robberies or accidents. They’re being executed.” He glanced at a different datapad. “Springer’s the only survivor so far, and Ratch isn’t sure he’ll make it.”
Bluestreak frowned and leaned closer, his chassis brushing Jazz’s shoulder, and the shiver of anticipation that sent through Jazz was wholly inappropriate in the moment. “Springer,” he repeated, and his optics narrowed. He pointed to one datapad after another. “Pyro. Rotorstorm. Quickstrike. Hubcap.”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t see it?”
“Should I?” Jazz took a long gulp of his engex. It no longer burned, but it settled warm and comforting in his tanks. He was losing his mind with this case, and part of him wished he hadn’t taken it off Prowl’s hands.
But he also wanted to stop feeling useless, and something this complicated and politically dangerous couldn’t be handled by anyone else.
“They’re all Wreckers,” Bluestreak said. “Or were anyway since the Wreckers were disbanded once the truce went into effect.” He straightened, and Jazz told himself not to mourn the distance.
Jazz cycled his optics behind his visor and tugged the datapads closer, reading through the bios of the five mechs again. Springer was obvious. So were Pyro and Rotorstorm, but somehow, he’d missed that in Quickstrike because the mech had served much longer in one of Prowl’s adjacent special ops units.
But Bluestreak was right. Every single one of the mechs attacked had spent a portion of their Autobot service as a Wrecker.
He shouldn’t have missed it.
Primus, he was tired.
“Blue, you’re a genius.” Jazz downed the rest of his engex and started dumping datapads into multiple compartments. He had to get this information to Prowl as soon as possible.
There were a lot more Wreckers on Cybertron right now, since Rodimus Prime had called back every unit he could get a hold of. Most mechs came home. Most didn’t mind the disbanding of their various units. People wanted to embrace peace, they wanted to stop fighting.
Jazz could think of at least a dozen former Wreckers off the top of his head. Potential targets now. If this killer was truly targeting Wreckers, then something had to be done. To warn them, protect them.
And find the mech responsible.
Bluestreak swept the second empty cube from the table. “You’d have figured it out eventually, I’m sure. Tell Prowl I said ‘hello’.” He balanced the tray in one hand, leaving Jazz with a wink.
Jazz absolutely didn’t watch Bluestreak walk away, offering a smile to another patron at a table as he picked up empty cubes before slipping back behind the bar. It was a slow, slow day, which was why Blurr was at home, and Bluestreak was the only one working.
There were other bars on Cybertron, in Autobot City, but Jazz preferred this one, New Maccadam’s. Not only because he played here most weekends and made it great on tips and even occasionally popped behind the bar to spell whoever was on duty, and not only because one of his best friends owned the place.
It might have had something to do with Bluestreak. Not that Jazz would ever admit it aloud.
Some embarrassing secrets were better kept secret.
Prowl was not having a good month.
He was perpetually running a week behind on his paperwork -- something he’d manage to maintain even during the war. His Prime kept vanishing for secret rendezvous with the Decepticon Winglord, rendezvous he thought Prowl knew nothing about. And someone was murdering Autobots in his city, under his nose, and making little attempt to hide it.
His best spy had yet to find Prowl a perpetrator no matter how much Prowl pushed him, and pretty soon, the lid on this boiling cauldron would fly right off.
Granted, this was better than war. But then, most things were.
Prowl sighed and tossed down his stylus. His head ached, he’d read the same line three times, and he had accomplished nothing. He needed to rest, recharge, refuel. He needed to not be at his desk for three more hours.
He logged off his computer and shut it down. He glared at the stack of datapads on the corner of his desk, long overdue, and decided that since Rodimus Prime didn’t read them on time anyway, why should he worry about taking them home?
Prowl stepped out from behind his desk, flicking his sensory panels to ease a cramp in the hinge. He thought longingly of the bottle of newly brewed Protohex Eddy sitting by his berthside.
His door whooshed open, and Prowl drew up short, blinking. That was supposed to be locked.
Then Jazz strode inside with a slag-eating grin, and that explained everything. Or at least part of it. There were few mechs capable of effortlessly hacking Prowl’s locks.
“The Wreckers,” he declared, gesturing at Prowl with a datapad.
Prowl sighed and scrubbed his forehead. “They’re disbanded, remember? I’m not allowed to use them anymore.” Which was a shame, because he could have made great use of them given the current state of affairs. An expendable, highly trained fighting force was worth twice its weight in clear-mined energon.
“That’s not what I meant.” Jazz huffed and slapped him in the chassis with the datapad. “The victims. They’re all Wreckers.”
Prowl blinked.
He took the datapad and flicked it on, surveying the details of the investigation again, this time with the new information. Jazz was right. So far, every mech killed had spent a portion of their Autobot service in the Wreckers regiment, significant or otherwise.
“Who’s doing it?” Prowl asked.
“I don’t know yet. But it’s only a matter of time. Now that I got a pattern, I can figure out a motive and figure out who. Until then…” Jazz shifted from foot to foot and wiggled one hand from side to side. “You gotta warn the rest of the Wreckers on planet.”
Prowl frowned. “Warn them?”
Jazz’s visor flickered. “That someone out there is killing Wreckers? They need to know to look out for themselves. We gotta get them some protection or something.”
“And cause a panic?”
“Better they know!”
Prowl’s engine revved. Jazz glared at him. Here they were, back to their usual stances, on one side of a very thin line.
Prowl rubbed his forehead again, the ache behind his optics sharp and pulsing. “Individually,” he conceded. “Warn them quietly. Arrange for protection to those who want it. But if you want to save their sparks, the quickest way to do so is to catch the mech responsible.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that.” Jazz scowled and snatched his datapad from Prowl’s hand. He nearly took a layer of paint with it. “Don’t worry, Prowl. I’ll keep yer precious peace. It’s what you’re paying me for.”
He spun on a heelstrut and stormed out of the room with as much anger as he could muster given the door opened for him and closed quietly. Emotional, that one could be, though Primus knew he allowed only a select few to see it. Prowl wondered when he’d started qualifying.
Perhaps the moment he and Jazz agreed they were friends. Not that anyone else would be able to qualify their association as friendship. It was unique.
Prowl sighed. He thought longingly of his bottle of Protohex Eddy. And then he turned and went back to his desk, logging back into the network to pull up every file on every Autobot who had ever served as a Wrecker.
There had to be something in their mission reports, their histories, to explain why someone was trying to murder them. There were nanobytes of data crammed into the system. It would take him hours to go through all of the reports and start forming cross-referenced database.
Needs must.
Prowl set his jaw and got to work.
Blurr’s leg bounced up and down, up and down. He clicked through the channels, too fast to pay much attention, knowing he wasn’t going to be able to focus on anything anyway. Sound flashed by, little snippets of conversation.
Boring, boring, boring.
Blurr sighed and thumped his head back against the top of the couch. Maybe he should go ahead and go into work. He wasn’t accomplishing anything at home. He wasn’t busy or otherwise occupied.
He was bored. Tracks was busy. Jazz was working. Drift was off-planet on his “honeymoon” with Ratchet -- who’d been dragged almost kicking and screaming, no less, Doc was a little allergic to rest and relaxation.
Blurr had no choice but to be alone, and he didn’t like it one bit. He wanted to be entertained and none of his playmates were available.
Bounce, bounce, bounce.
Blurr shot up from the couch. He would go for a run, see if there was anyone worth a challenge out there.
He made it two quick steps to the door before it chimed at him. Oh, thank Primus.
Blurr flung the door open without bothering to check the ident code of his visitor. A familiar black and white frame came into view, the flash of a blue visor putting a huge grin on Blurr’s face.
“Tell me you’re off shift,” Blurr demanded.
“Technically.” Jazz’s grin was easy and sexy, and Blurr wanted to taste it. “But I’m still working. Ya know how it is.”
Blurr snorted, snagged Jazz by the shoulder, and tugged him inside. “Work later. Berthroom now.”
Jazz stumbled along with him, a laugh spilling from his lips. “What? You’re not even going to buy me dinner first? What kinda mech you think I am?”
“As easy as I am.” Blurr crowded Jazz against the wall and kissed him, a shiver of want spilling up his backstrut as Jazz opened to the kiss, their glossa meeting in a hot tangle.
Yes. This. This right here was exactly what Blurr’s fractured attention span wanted.
He hummed and grabbed Jazz’s hips, pulling him in for a nice grind of metal on metal, heat pooling southward. Jazz’s field stroked along his with tendrils of electric fire, and a moan rattled in Blurr’s intake.
“I actually came here for somethin’ important,” Jazz said, but he grabbed Blurr’s aft and rocked right back, charge flicking between their frames in bright bursts. He nibbled on Blurr’s lips, head tilting upward into the kiss, his vents puffing heat back at Blurr.
“Later,” Blurr insisted against Jazz’s mouth, and nudged a knee between his thighs, giving Jazz something to grind against. The hot press of Jazz’s clearly eager frame was intoxicating. .
“‘Kay,” Jazz said, beautifully pliant.
Blurr laughed and yanked Jazz away from the wall. Not that he was averse to fragging the gorgeous spy here in the entryway. He had, after all, done it before. But a berth would be preferable. If he could be comfortable, he wanted to be.
Post-war peace-time had spoiled him.
“Are you feelin’ neglected there, racer-boy?” Jazz asked with a chuckle as he let himself be pulled. His field slid over Blurr’s, electric-fire prickling at Blurr’s sensor net and flooding him with heat.
“More like bored.” Blurr flicked the lights to fifty-percent and swung Jazz back into his arms, holding the spy’s chin with both hands to devour him with a kiss.
He knew he’d applied the right kind of pressure when Jazz moaned, gripped at his wrists, and struggled to stay standing. His field flickered and wavered, then clung to Blurr’s stickily. Hungrily. Arousal tangibly wafted around him.
Blurr grinned. “But you’ll entertain me, right?”
“I’m not a toy,” Jazz muttered, but he backed toward the berth and towed Blurr with him, his panels springing open, the glitter of his biolights as inviting as his field.
“Does that mean I can’t play with you?” Blurr teased as his mouth filled with lubricant. He grabbed Jazz’s hips, hoisting his aft onto the bed with Jazz’s assistance, and nudged his way between Jazz’s thighs.
Valve lights blinked up at him in arrhythmic pulses. Lubricant shone wetly within the depths of Jazz’s valve, and Blurr wanted to taste him.
He hummed and cradled Jazz’s hips, leaning forward to give Jazz a long, savoring lick. A hissed vent erupted from Jazz’s vents, his backstrut curving as he fisted the berth cover. Biolights glittered invitingly.
“If you keep doing that, then it’s okay with me.” Jazz threw his legs up over Blurr’s shoulders, calves tugging him up to ride Blurr’s face.
Blurr grinned and licked Jazz again, licked deep into the center of him, lapping up the sweetness of his lubricant. Jazz shivered and rocked against his mouth, his valve swelling and biolights eagerly dancing. He pawed at Blurr’s crest, trying to direct his head where Jazz wanted it most.
Blurr resisted. He licked Jazz’s rim, tasting every one of the microsensors before he latched lips and denta on Jazz’s anterior node and added pressure, just enough for Jazz’s sensornet to feel it.
“Frag!” Jazz yelped and jerked hard against Blurr’s mouth, his vents flaring in a wide burst of air.
“Too much?” Blurr asked as he flicked the tip of his glossa over the throbbing nub, knowing good and well that wasn’t the problem.
Jazz’s visor flashed blue at him. He growled, “You know it slag-well wasn’t.” His feet drummed Blurr’s upper back. “Again.”
Blurr licked his lips and tilted his head, savoring the taste of Jazz. “Nope.” He popped the word and slid two fingers into Jazz’s valve instead, curving them to rub fiercely on the cluster of microsensors right behind his rim.
Charge danced over Jazz’s armor, and he writhed on the berth, leg tires setting into a lazy spin. His headlights flickered, head tilting back to bare the column of his intake.
Blurr’s panel popped, his spike emerging with a throb of want. Arousal coiled heavy in his groin, setting into a dull, demanding pulse. He stroked Jazz again, soaked in the sight of him writhing, before he put a knee on the berth.
He mouthed a blinking headlight first, crawling over Jazz, the spy’s legs falling to curl around his hips, tugging him into position. His spikehead bumped over a dripping valve, and they both shivered.
“You need more playmates.” Jazz hooked his fingers in Blurr’s seams and tried to tug him closer, angle him better.
“I need the ones I have to be more available,” Blurr corrected with a laugh. He bit Jazz’s intake, denta applying enough pressure to leave a mark. It would be gone by morning.
Jazz shuddered, his visor flashing and his field spiking with volcanic need. He drummed his heels on the back of Blurr’s thighs. “Well, maybe if you weren’t such a damned tease-- ah!”
Blurr sank forward, filling Jazz to the hilt in one quick thrust. Calipers fluttered and rippled around him. Charge spilled out of Jazz’s nodes, feeding into Blurr’s sensors. He groaned as slick heat clamped around his spike.
He buried deep and lingered, grinding hard on Jazz's ceiling node. Jazz's valve squeezed and flexed around him. More charge erupted from beneath Jazz's armor, and he grabbed Blurr's sides, fingers digging into his seams.
"More," Jazz demanded, thighs pressing inward, squeezing.
"You're too damn bossy," Blurr panted and curved forward, stealing Jazz's lips to silence the demands.
He retreated and plunged in again, hard and fast thrusts, driving into Jazz as fierce and deep as the spy wanted it. A whine spilled from Jazz's intake, his hands scrabbling over Blurr's armor, head falling back to bare his intake again.
Blurr took advantage, falling upon it with lips and denta. Electric fire zipped up and down his backstrut as he took Jazz's valve again and again, the calipers squeezing tight and nodes erupting charge over his sensors. His spike throbbed, pleasure twisting and churning in his gut, tightening into a spring that demanded release.
Jazz gasped and bucked beneath him, his field tingling over Blurr's frame in a wave of static fire. His thighs clamped harder, metal skidding against metal, his spike jutting free with an audible snick, the tip of it scrubbing over Blurr's abdominal armor. He left smears of prefluid on Blurr's plating.
"Yeah, but ya still gave me more," Jazz said, a cocky grin on his lips that made Blurr's engine rev.
"I have terrible impulse control." Blurr braced his weight on one hand and wrapped his fingers around Jazz's spike with the other, giving him a squeeze.
Jazz made a strangled noise and sank his fingers into Blurr's seam, pressing hard on the cables beneath. A shock of pleasure rippled across Blurr's sensory net. He moaned and bit down on Jazz's intake again, pinning a cable between his denta, the rapid flutter of Jazz's spark beat dancing against his lips.
"I'm fond of your lack of it," Jazz groaned and bucked up against him, hips rising to meet each of Blurr's thrusts, his vents rapid and straining.
Blurr squeezed his spike and stroked him faster, his fingers painted in streaks of pre-fluid as Jazz writhed beneath him. His head tossed back again, charge erupting from beneath his armor, before he overloaded, valve clamping tight and spike spurting over Blurr's fist.
Jazz keened, blue charge dancing over his armor in a beautiful wave as his valve clutched and spat electric heat over Blurr’s spike. It cycled down, pulling him deeper. Blurr groaned, both hands gripping Jazz’s hips to yank him into each thrust, bearing Jazz down into the berth.
The coil tightened inside of him, twisting and twisting, holding a tension near to bursting. Blurr groaned, head tilting forward, vents coming in sharp bursts. He thrust, again and again, the berth creaking, Jazz’s hands scraping at his armor, and it wasn’t until he focused past the roaring in his audials that he heard Jazz chanting, “yes, yes, yes!”
Jazz’s valve clutched hungrily at his spike, feeding him burst after burst of charge. A surge of electricity spat out of his nodes, zapping Blurr’s sensors, and he shattered. He slammed into Jazz, holding himself deep. Spurts of transfluid painted Jazz’s valve, and Blurr circled his hips, grinding the base of his array against Jazz’s.
Claws sank into his side seams, lightly pricking the cables beneath, a brief stab of pain to flavor the ecstasy. Jazz’s head tossed back as he overloaded again, circuits tripped on the charge-loop between their units.
Awareness went hot-white. Blurr groaned, long and low, and collapsed forward, vents whirring and frame trembling as overload left him twitching and spent. Jazz shoved at his shoulders, grumbling a protest.
“Get off.”
“I just did.” Blurr chuckled and used the last of his strength to tip to the side, sliding out of Jazz and sprawling across his oversized berth. A pleasant langor started to set in, and he soaked it up.
Much better entertainment. So much better.
“Yeah, the mess between my thighs is proof,” Jazz drawled. He socked Blurr on the shoulder, pulled himself a bit further on the berth, and sprawled over the remaining space, thighs splayed, messy array on display.
Blurr hummed and slid a palm over Jazz’s thigh, fingers gently stroking the mess around his valve rim. “Another round?”
“Give me a fragging minute.” The back of Jazz’s hand thwapped his shoulder. “I did come here for a reason. Gotta talk to you.”
“Talking should be the last thing on your mind.” Blurr propped his head up with his free hand, though he left the other to idly stroke Jazz’s sensitive nodes, provoking a shiver. “But whatever. What’s so important you had to rush over here?”
Jazz wriggled away from his hand, though there was reluctance in his field. “You’re in danger.”
Blurr snorted and took his hand back, wiggling his fingers to watch the glimmer of lubricant across them. “Sure I am.”
“I’m serious.”
“From what?”
“I don’t know yet.” Jazz sat up and scooted off the berth before spinning back around to face Blurr. “Someone’s killing Wreckers which means you’re on the list.”
“I’m not a Wrecker anymore,” Blurr pointed out.
“Technically no one is. They’re disbanded. That’s not stopping this maniac though.” Jazz sighed and brushed ineffectually at the lubricant painting his thighs. “Springer’s in the medcenter. They almost got him.”
Blurr frowned. That was news to him. Springer was a pretty well-known and popular Autobot. If he was attacked and under medical care, why didn’t everyone know?
This had Prowl written all over it.
Still.
“I think you’re overestimating my relevance. I was barely a Wrecker.” Most Autobots didn’t remember he’d been one. Blurr was more famous for what he was before the war, not during it, and only a little bit in the aftermath. He hadn’t made much of a name for himself as a soldier.
Jazz scrubbed a hand over his forehead. Someone needed to tell him he looked an awful lot like Prowl when he did that. “I want you to have some backup.”
“I don’t follow.” Blurr sat up. He suspected there would be no round two. The mood was gone.
“Backup. A bodyguard preferably.” Jazz started to pace, one hand on his chin, still talking but not so much at Blurr as thinking aloud. “You live alone. Your address is publically known and so is your schedule. You’re an easy target. I’ll have to find someone with an equal skillset who isn’t a target themselves.”
Blurr slid off the berth, intercepting Jazz mid-pace. “I don’t want a bodyguard. I don’t need one. I can take care of myself.”
“But ya can’t watch yer own back,” Jazz said, jabbing Blurr in the chestplate. His accent betrayed his anxiety.
Any other time, it would have been cute.
Blurr folded his arms and set his jaw. “No.”
“Blurr, I’m bein’ serious here.”
“So am I!” He chuffed a vent and walked out of the berthroom, unsurprised when Jazz followed. “Don’t waste your resources on me. I’m fine. Go look after some other mech. I’ve got this.” He beelined for the washrack, the lubricant and other fluids drying tacky and sticky on his armor. “Now come on. Let’s wash up, and get back to something fun.”
Jazz loitered in the doorway of the washrack -- it was smaller than Blurr would have liked, but being as most mechs had to trek to a communal one, he wasn’t going to complain. Blurr couldn’t read the look in Jazz’s visor either. Sometimes, he turned inscrutable again, better resembling the Spec Ops mech who haunted many a Decepticon nightmare, rather than the amiable singer who often played in Blurr’s bar.
“Nah,” Jazz said, leaning against the jamb. “I’m still workin’, and I got others to warn. Maybe I’ll come back for that second round.”
Blurr spiraled his optics into a small, suspicious squint. “You’re angry.”
Jazz waved him off. “No, I’m thinkin’. If you’re gonna be stubborn about this, then that means I gotta find the mech doin’ this ASAP, or I’m gonna lose my favorite berth partner.” Half his visor fluttered in a wink Blurr didn’t believe for a second.
He’d known Jazz long enough to know that when his accent slipped, it was because he was swallowing down an emotion he didn’t want others to read. Probably fury in this case.
“Suit yourself.” Blurr shrugged and flicked on the spray, tepid solvent rapidly warming to hot, filling the room with steam.
Jazz was gone by the time he turned back around.
Solo shower it was.
