[IDW] A Perfect Storm 02/16
Apr. 15th, 2019 06:05 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 Two
“I need a favor.”
Those were the first words out of his twin’s mouth, and Ricochet barely had a moment to marvel at the rarity of them before Jazz invited himself into Ricochet’s tiny apartment.
“Come on in,” Ricochet said as he let the door close and followed the agitated swirl of his brother’s field into the main room. He dropped down on the edge of the lounge, visor tracking Jazz’s pacing. “Pleasure to see you, bro. Nice of ya to remember I exist.”
It’d been a week, maybe more, since Jazz had last popped into his life. Ricochet didn’t know why his twin suddenly decided to play ghost. He didn’t ask, he didn’t poke, he didn’t pry. Jazz’s business was Jazz’s business. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be snide about it.
“I’ve been busy,” Jazz said, and he sounded distracted. It was certainly in his field, that and worry, too. He was working himself into a tizzy over something.
Ricochet made a noncommittal noise. “Right.” He sniffed, got a whiff of ozone and lubricant, and a curl of anger started in his belly. If Jazz was agitated because some mech had laid hands where they shouldn’t, Ricochet was not going to be happy.
Jazz clipped to a halt and spun toward him. His gaze flicked over Ricochet, up and down, like seeing him for the first time. “I need a favor,” he repeated.
“Heard ya the first time.” He half-hoped this favor involved his collection of vibro-knives, an untraceable map, and a name.
“It’s a big one,” Jazz said, and he dropped to his knees, crossing the floor in a few awkward slides until he nudged his way between Ricochet’s feet.
He sat back, making room for his brother. “I’m listening.” When Jazz’s requests started with him on his knees, Ricochet’s listening turned up to eleven.
“Yer gonna have to trust me,” Jazz said, his palms skating up Ricochet’s knee to thigh, sliding down and inward, until his thumbs brushed Ricochet’s panel. He looked up, glossa sweeping over his lips. “It’s going to be a pain in the aft.”
Ricochet cupped the back of his twin’s head. “Your favors usually are.” Not an assassination then. Ricochet tended to enjoy those. Kidnapping maybe? Those definitely qualified as a pain in the aft.
A quirk of a lip was Jazz’s answer before he bowed his head and licked a hot, wet line over Ricochet’s spike panel. Pleasure danced up his spinal strut. So. It was to be like that then?
Well, all right.
Ricochet popped his panel, let his spike extend, and Jazz immediately took the head of it into his mouth, suckling and prodding at the slit with the tip of his glossa. Mmm. Such a good spike-sucker his brother was. One of the best.
“Must be a serious favor,” Ricochet hummed. “To get you down on your knees so soon. I didn’t even get the chance to say no.”
Jazz smirked around his spike and sucked him deeper, into his intake, flexing the cables around his spike. Ricochet gnawed on his bottom lip. Been a week since he’d seen his twin, and longer htan that since he’d been buried in Jazz’s intake. A mech had needs, and since Ricochet was mostly persona non grata to both sides of the conflict, it was harder to find partners who wanted a tussle in the berth.
“Ya suck spike like you were born for it,” Ricochet groaned and cradled his twin’s head with both hands, adjusting the angle so he could go deeper.
Jazz hummed, talons sinking into Ricochet’s thighs, as his glossa lashed the length of Ricochet’s spike. He swallowed again, and Ricochet shuddered.
“Now I’m really listening,” Ricochet said, loosening his grasp to allow Jazz to speak.
His brother didn’t. Jazz laughed around his spike and took him deeper instead, the light behind his visor shifting up toward Ricochet. His field pulsed invitation, his fingertips leaving scrapes in Ricochet’s armor.
Talk later then. Fine by him.
Ricochet grasped Jazz’s head and held him in place, bracing his feet on the ground to get a nice, good thrust. Jazz moaned, engine revving, lust pouring into his field and slamming into Ricochet.
“Yes,” he hissed. “Take my spike, bro. Like you love it.”
Jazz moaned, and his panel popped, spike bobbing free. Ricochet grinned as Jazz reached down and started jerking himself off with frantic motions, oral lubricant leaking out the corner of his mouth.
Ricochet bucked into his intake, grinding against his face, and Jazz just sucked him harder, swallowing around his spike as if he needed transfluid to sate his hunger. There was no protest to Ricochet burying himself to the hilt, cutting of Jazz’s oral ventilations, forcing him to redirect his air flows.
There was hunger in his field, yearning, too. Ricochet could taste the pleasure on him, knew Jazz had already overloaded once today, maybe even recently. But he was so revved up now, it was like no one had touched him in days.
He needed more than those playmates of his would give him.
“You need an owner,” Ricochet grunted as he thrust into his brother’s intake, over and over, long and deep strokes that took and took without offering anything back, just like Jazz wanted.
“Not just me either,” Ricochet continued as Jazz’s strokes picked up in earnest, and more lubricant spilled out of the corner of his mouth, trickling down his chin. “But someone who can really throw ya down and give ya what ya need.”
Ah, and what a picture it would be. Jazz, bound and splayed open, either gagged or with an o-ring, open for their pleasure. He’d beg for it with wordless noises and with every writhe of his frame, but they’d torment him, open him up, feed him ecstasy without letting him tip over the edge. They’d use him, and he’d thank them for it.
Ricochet groaned, his fingers tightening on his brother’s head. “You’re mine right now though. And that’s where yer gonna stay.” He thrust hard and deep, mashing Jazz’s nose against his base, and overloaded down his brother’s intake.
Jazz moaned, his field exploding with fiery satisfaction. He swallowed hard, sucking down every drop, and then he shuddered from head to foot, the smell of overload filling the air. Ricochet didn’t have to check to know Jazz had overloaded, splattering the ground with his transfluid.
Ricochet held himself deep, through every last tremor, before he let Jazz pull back, though he kept a firm grip on his brother’s jaw. He swept his thumb over Jazz’s chin, slick with lubricant and bubbles of transfluid. Jazz’s lips were swollen and slick, his visor hazy with satisfaction. It was a good look on him.
“I’m convinced,” Ricochet purred and yanked Jazz upward, slamming their mouths together. He tasted himself on Jazz’s glossa.
Jazz moaned, scrabbling at his chestplate before catching a grip in a seam. He hauled himself to straddling Ricochet’s leg, scrubbing his bared valve over Ricochet’s thigh.
“Primus, you’re sexy,” Ricochet growled as he jerked Jazz’s head up so he could bite at his twin’s intake, feeling the bob of Jazz’s swallow against his lips.
Jazz rocked harder. “Would ya even stand it if I had an owner that wasn’t you?” he gasped, his fingers sliding beneath Ricochet’s seams and shooting charge against his cables.
“Depends on the mech.” Ricochet grinned against Jazz’s intake and bit him hard enough to leave a mark.
Jazz jerked and another moan slipped out of his lips. “Good to know.”
Ricochet chuckled and sat back, admiring the rock and sway of Jazz on his leg. His brother had the monopoly on attractiveness. “So,” he said as he held Jazz by the thighs so he could grind himself however he wished, “what’s this favor you want of me?”
“It’s right up your alley,” Jazz said, voice a little raspy.
Ricochet smirked with pride. He curled a hand around his brother’s intake, half-squeezing, half-stroking to soothe the ache. Jazz’s visor flickered, his fingers curving into Ricochet’s seams.
“Go on,” Ricochet said.
Jazz licked his lips, his chin still glistening with fluids. “You remember that bar I work at, yeah?”
“‘Course.”
“The owner, Blurr’s, a friend o’ mine,” Jazz said with another rock of his hips, smearing lubricant on Ricochet’s thigh. “He’s in danger. I gotta figure out who so I can’t stick around to protect him.”
Ricochet barked a laugh and slid his other hand from Jazz’s hip to his groin, his thumb pressing in against Jazz’s anterior node cluster. His brother jerked, sucking in a sharp vent.
“So why me?”
“He’s stubborn.” Jazz’s head hung a little, his lips parted for small, breathy gasps. Bits of charge curled out from under his armor. “So are you. Figure he’s your kinda challenge.”
“Hmm.” Ricochet tilted his head and rubbed harder on Jazz’s node, hard enough to hurt, though all it did was make Jazz shudder and whine. “I do like a challenge.”
It wasn’t like he had anything else lined up. He didn’t have much in the ways of a job. Wasn’t much for a former special ops agent to do in a post-war world. Especially if that former agent was a Decepticon and not an Autobot.
Though Jazz was right. This was a pain in the aft assignment. Killing someone was easy. Keeping them alive? Entirely different set of skills. Luckily, Ricochet had both.
“Knew it.” Jazz panted and rocked his hips harder, grinding his valve down on Ricochet’s thigh. “So you’ll do it?”
“Well, yer makin’ it mighty hard for me to refuse.” Ricochet dropped his hand to his spike, pressurizing once more, and swept a thumb over the tip, gathering the pearl of pre-fluid. He swept it over Jazz’s lips, watched him lick it up. “Slut.”
Jazz grinned, and his visor flared with a bright yearning. “Wrapped around my finger,” he half-sang, half-gasped. His armor flared and more charge spilled out.
Ricochet laughed. “Yeah, probably,” he said, and yanked Jazz in for a kiss.
~
Weekdays were the quietest.
Blurr didn’t mind working the weekdays. It gave him time to go through inventory, reorganize his supplies, wipe down parts of his bar he didn’t always clean… In general, it allowed him to make sure New Maccadam’s was the best place to be any time of the week. Weekdays weren’t the credmakers, but they were important.
He had a grand total of three customers in his bar right now. Two were regulars, one was new. All of them quietly sipped their drinks in separate corners, three mechs who just wanted to be left alone to ruminate.
Blurr was happy to oblige.
He continued removing bottles of fine engex from the display behind the counter, readying a spray bottle and mesh cloth to wipe away the thin film of dust. It didn’t matter that he cleaned this weekly. He didn’t know where all the dust came from.
Cybertron was perpetually dirty, he figured.
The main door slid open, a small chime announcing a new customer. Blurr finished wiping one bottle, set it down, and turned to greet the newcomer.
“Oh, it’s just you,” Blurr said as he tossed the meshtowel over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be working?”
“Who says I’m not?” Jazz replied as he grinned and strode cockily up to the bar, another mech following at his heels.
Slightly taller and broader than Jazz, there was something familiar about the mech Blurr couldn’t quite place. He was mainly red and white, with patches of gray, and a bright yellow visor and a cocky smirk Blurr instantly hated.
“Fair point.” Blurr glanced past him at the mech before returning his attention to Jazz. “The usual?”
“Nope. I’m workin’. Can’t drink.” Jazz hopped up on a stool and braced his elbows on the counter, leaning forward. “Got a sec?”
Blurr spread his hands. “I’m buried in customers right now.”
“Smart aft.” Jazz chuckled and propped his chin on the heel of his palm. “So. You remember my brother, yeah?”
Ohhh. Right. Ricochet. The Decepticon brother Jazz didn’t like to talk about until the war was over, and then it was hard to get Jazz to shut up about him. Blurr didn’t have any siblings, so he couldn’t relate. But that explained the familiarity.
“We haven’t actually met,” Blurr said, giving Ricochet a sidelong look. “Why?”
Ricochet nudged his way against the counter next to Jazz, ignoring the stool beside him, choosing instead to stand and lean forward, crowding into his twin’s space. “I hear there’s a damsel in distress ‘round here. I came to make sure he stays alive and well.”
Blurr cycled his optics.
He glanced at Jazz, who had a slag-eating grin, and back to Ricochet, who echoed Jazz, but with a mouth of partially sharpened denta.
Realization struck.
“Damn it,” Blurr growled, and slammed the towel on the counter. “I told you I don’t need protection.”
“It’s not like yer the only one,” Jazz said with a rev of his engine. “Everyone else gets the special treatment, too.”
Blurr pressed his lips into a thin line. He glared, hoping the heat of it was enough to dissuade Jazz from this very stupid idea.
Jazz held up his hands and leaned back, the stool rocking beneath him. “Ya can’t get mad at me for trying to keep ya alive, Blurr. I ain’t gonna back down on this.”
“I should have a choice,” Blurr hissed, slamming his hands onto the counter.
“I could pull rank.”
“We don’t have rank anymore, you aft,” Blurr snapped. “I’m not in the army.”
Ricochet laughed, and his darker, deeper voice had no business making thrills dance down Blurr’s spinal strut. “You two are adorable.” He leaned against the counter, hands clasped in front of him. “Someone tries to save yer aft and you get mad about it? Who’s the real aft here, Speedy?”
“My name is Blurr,” he snapped with a sharp look Ricochet’s direction. “And I don’t owe you an answer.”
“Rico, you’re not helping.” Jazz scrubbed a hand around his mouth and sighed into his palm. “Look. I even made sure Whirl got a guard, okay? Though he’s arguably the safest of everyone. You’re not an exception, so just get over it. Rico won’t even get in your way.”
Blurr ground his denta. He snagged the meshcloth and scrubbed at the clean counter, attacking a divot in the polished metal. “I don’t like this.”
“I know ya don’t.” Jazz’s hand fell over his, stopping him from scrubbing. “But you’re doin’ me a favor if ya put up with it.”
“Does that mean you owe me a favor?” Blurr asked. He could think of a half dozen ways he could cash that in.
Ricochet laughed and nudged Jazz with an elbow. “Favors are your speciality,” he purred, leaning in to Jazz and nuzzling at his audial. “Aren’t they, bro?”
Jazz chuffed, only to still, his hand raising to his audial. He half-turned away from them. “Jazz here. What is it?”
Blurr glanced at Ricochet, and caught the other mech staring back at him, his visor sharp and cutting. It was too much like Jazz’s look for Blurr’s comfort. It sent a weird twinge through his sensor net.
“What? When?” Jazz’s tone turned sharp and angry. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t touch anything!”
He dropped his hand and whirled back toward them, his field a flash of frenzy before he coiled it behind a wall of emptiness.
“There’s been another killing,” Jazz said, and he drew his former authority around him like a mantle. “Another Wrecker dead. Ricochet, you stay on Blurr like a second paintjob,” he commanded, pointing at his twin before he turned that point on Blurr. “And you’ll take him as a bodyguard whether you like it or not. Understood?”
Ricochet lounged against the counter. “Whatever you say, bro.”
Blurr ground his denta and scrubbed at the divot again. “Fine. But we’re not done talking about this.”
“Yes, we are.”
Jazz left, without giving Blurr or Ricochet a chance to argue otherwise. Not that Blurr had an argument ready. It was hard to argue with Jazz when he took that tone, and a part of Blurr was too accustomed to obeying military authority now.
“Aft,” Blurr muttered.
“Primus, I love it when he gets like that,” Ricochet said with a long look at Jazz’s departing aft. His armor fluttered in a visible shiver of interest. “I’d bend him over a table right now if I could.” His glossa swept over his lips.
Blurr snorted and tossed the meshcloth into a basket for laundry. “Why am I not surprised that you’re as oversexed as your twin?”
“From what I hear, you’re not one ta talk,” Ricochet drawled and rapped his knuckles on the counter. “So what’s good here? Can I get a drink or ya gonna leave me here to thirst?”
Blurr narrowed his optics. “How are you going to be my bodyguard if you’re drunk?”
“Gonna take a lot more than a single drink to get me anywhere near incapacitated.” Ricochet grinned, and it was a lazy curl of his lips over sharp denta. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep that fine aft of yours safe.”
“Fantastic,” Blurr muttered. “This is going to be great.”
He grabbed the cheapest engex he had on draft and poured Ricochet a cup, sliding it over to him.
Ricochet’s visor fluttered in a wink, must’ve learned it from Jazz, and took a large gulp. He made no attempt to hide the fact he was admiring Blurr’s aft.
Argh.
Blurr didn’t like this one bit.
~
Jazz had never met Leadfoot. He didn’t know anything about the former Wrecker except what was written in his official file and what was written in his mission reports. He seemed like an alright mech.
He probably didn’t deserve what had been done to him.
It would’ve been easier to connect the murders if they’d all been committed in the same manner. He didn’t know why the murderer had been particularly atrocious to Leadfoot. Maybe it was personal.
Or maybe he (or she) was just upping the ante.
“I want to know how someone can do this to another mech,” Prowl said as he glared out the window, his back to the crime scene, every line of his armor painted in fury.
“Ya fought in the same war I did. Bots and Cons, we’ve done worst to each other,” Jazz replied.
Once upon a time, he would have seen the mess of a mech like this and been sick to his tanks. The war had hardened him. Despite the splatter of brain bits, the streaks of energon blood, and the armor pieces flung about, Jazz barely blinked.
“You misunderstand.” Prowl’s tone could have frozen a magma flow. His sensory panels stiffened. “I understand the horrors we are incapable of inflicting. What I don’t understand is why there is a maniac loose to do it when my best spy has reassured me he’s on the case.”
Jazz stood, stepping over the mangled corpse of a former Autobot. “Rules are different now, Prowl. We can’t play things the way we used to. You know that.”
Prowl shifted to see him over the jut of a shoulder and sensory panel. “Maybe it’s time we revisited old methods.”
“What’s Prime say about that?”
“Maybe Prime doesn’t have to know.”
Jazz’s insides clenched. He wasn’t particularly loyal to the office of the Prime. He’d always been loyal to his own moral code. Rodimus was trying, just as hard as Optimus had, but they were both very faliable mechs.
He moved closer to Prowl, so no one could hear their conversation. Some might call it treacherous.
“I want this to end. The people of Cybertron need this to end,” Prowl murmured, wisely lowering the volume. “I don’t want anymore of my Autobots being slaughtered. Do whatever it takes, Jazz. That’s why I trusted you with this in the first place.”
Jazz bobbed on his heelstruts. “Full permission?”
Prowl slanted him a look. “Don’t take too much advantage of it.”
"Since when have I ever done that?"
~
Double-shifts were an inevitability.
New Maccadam's was Blurr's bar, his pride and joy. He worked long hours, always on his feet, and he served and cleaned and mixed like the rest of his employees. He took the good shifts, he took the slag shifts, he took the double-shifts.
Today was not a good day for a double-shift. It wasn't because business was slow, per the usual for a weekday. It wasn't because he'd had a supply delivery and spent a good portion of the shift hauling heavy boxes into the back.
It was because Ricochet wouldn't stop staring at him.
The aft didn't say anything. He just parked in a booth with a datapad and a revolving order of cheap engex, which he consumed steadily but never seemed to suffer any ill effects. When he wasn't engrossed in his datapad -- on which he was playing a game, Blurr had peeked when he'd gone by for a refill -- he was staring.
At Blurr.
Expression inscrutable thanks to the visor, the curve of one corner of Ricochet's mouth told Blurr all he needed to know. Ricochet wasn't just staring. He was leering.
He was Jazz's twin through and through.
He didn't act embarrassed either. When Blurr caught him looking, he kept staring. He held Blurr's gaze, shifted to get a better look, made no attempt to hide what he was doing.
Blurr was used to being stared at. It came with the territory of being a winner in the racing circuit, adored by fans and hated by the envious. He was used to being ogled. He was a bartender. Part of selling the product involved a wink and a grin and a little bit of a flirt.
Ricochet's stare was heavier than it all. Like he was imagining all the different ways he could take Blurr and make him scream.
The thought sent a shiver up his spinal strut. Which only made Blurr angrier. He didn't want to be attracted to Ricochet, but the annoying aft came in a pretty package, and there was something about that kind of raw confidence Blurr appreciated. Some might have called it arrogance, but Blurr knew a little something about arrogance himself.
"I'm closing soon," Blurr informed him as he swept up Ricochet's empty and replaced it. "I suppose that means you'll be heading home."
"Nope." Ricochet popped the word and leaned back, a lazy smirk on his lips. "You 'n me are gonna be roommates until big bro gives the all clear."
Blurr reared back. "What?"
"I wouldn't be much of a bodyguard if I sent ya home alone." Ricochet swept up the engex and gave it a long swallow, licking his lips afterward. "Hope your berth fits two."
"Even if it did, you wouldn't be invited into it," Blurr snapped, and his engine revved. Oh, he and Jazz would have words. "Besides, I have plans tonight. I don't need you tagging along."
"Cancel them."
Blurr glared. "No."
Ricochet shrugged. "Then I guess I'm goin' with ya." He tipped back his cube and finished it off with a noisy, annoying smack of his lips. "Lemme know when it's time to go." He kicked back, scooped up his datapad, and started playing his game again.
Blurr squared his jaw. Opened his mouth to argue. Realized it would get him nowhere. Snapped his jaw shut again. He spun on a heelstrut and stormed back toward his bar.
Double-shifts were the worst.
***
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.
“I need a favor.”
Those were the first words out of his twin’s mouth, and Ricochet barely had a moment to marvel at the rarity of them before Jazz invited himself into Ricochet’s tiny apartment.
“Come on in,” Ricochet said as he let the door close and followed the agitated swirl of his brother’s field into the main room. He dropped down on the edge of the lounge, visor tracking Jazz’s pacing. “Pleasure to see you, bro. Nice of ya to remember I exist.”
It’d been a week, maybe more, since Jazz had last popped into his life. Ricochet didn’t know why his twin suddenly decided to play ghost. He didn’t ask, he didn’t poke, he didn’t pry. Jazz’s business was Jazz’s business. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be snide about it.
“I’ve been busy,” Jazz said, and he sounded distracted. It was certainly in his field, that and worry, too. He was working himself into a tizzy over something.
Ricochet made a noncommittal noise. “Right.” He sniffed, got a whiff of ozone and lubricant, and a curl of anger started in his belly. If Jazz was agitated because some mech had laid hands where they shouldn’t, Ricochet was not going to be happy.
Jazz clipped to a halt and spun toward him. His gaze flicked over Ricochet, up and down, like seeing him for the first time. “I need a favor,” he repeated.
“Heard ya the first time.” He half-hoped this favor involved his collection of vibro-knives, an untraceable map, and a name.
“It’s a big one,” Jazz said, and he dropped to his knees, crossing the floor in a few awkward slides until he nudged his way between Ricochet’s feet.
He sat back, making room for his brother. “I’m listening.” When Jazz’s requests started with him on his knees, Ricochet’s listening turned up to eleven.
“Yer gonna have to trust me,” Jazz said, his palms skating up Ricochet’s knee to thigh, sliding down and inward, until his thumbs brushed Ricochet’s panel. He looked up, glossa sweeping over his lips. “It’s going to be a pain in the aft.”
Ricochet cupped the back of his twin’s head. “Your favors usually are.” Not an assassination then. Ricochet tended to enjoy those. Kidnapping maybe? Those definitely qualified as a pain in the aft.
A quirk of a lip was Jazz’s answer before he bowed his head and licked a hot, wet line over Ricochet’s spike panel. Pleasure danced up his spinal strut. So. It was to be like that then?
Well, all right.
Ricochet popped his panel, let his spike extend, and Jazz immediately took the head of it into his mouth, suckling and prodding at the slit with the tip of his glossa. Mmm. Such a good spike-sucker his brother was. One of the best.
“Must be a serious favor,” Ricochet hummed. “To get you down on your knees so soon. I didn’t even get the chance to say no.”
Jazz smirked around his spike and sucked him deeper, into his intake, flexing the cables around his spike. Ricochet gnawed on his bottom lip. Been a week since he’d seen his twin, and longer htan that since he’d been buried in Jazz’s intake. A mech had needs, and since Ricochet was mostly persona non grata to both sides of the conflict, it was harder to find partners who wanted a tussle in the berth.
“Ya suck spike like you were born for it,” Ricochet groaned and cradled his twin’s head with both hands, adjusting the angle so he could go deeper.
Jazz hummed, talons sinking into Ricochet’s thighs, as his glossa lashed the length of Ricochet’s spike. He swallowed again, and Ricochet shuddered.
“Now I’m really listening,” Ricochet said, loosening his grasp to allow Jazz to speak.
His brother didn’t. Jazz laughed around his spike and took him deeper instead, the light behind his visor shifting up toward Ricochet. His field pulsed invitation, his fingertips leaving scrapes in Ricochet’s armor.
Talk later then. Fine by him.
Ricochet grasped Jazz’s head and held him in place, bracing his feet on the ground to get a nice, good thrust. Jazz moaned, engine revving, lust pouring into his field and slamming into Ricochet.
“Yes,” he hissed. “Take my spike, bro. Like you love it.”
Jazz moaned, and his panel popped, spike bobbing free. Ricochet grinned as Jazz reached down and started jerking himself off with frantic motions, oral lubricant leaking out the corner of his mouth.
Ricochet bucked into his intake, grinding against his face, and Jazz just sucked him harder, swallowing around his spike as if he needed transfluid to sate his hunger. There was no protest to Ricochet burying himself to the hilt, cutting of Jazz’s oral ventilations, forcing him to redirect his air flows.
There was hunger in his field, yearning, too. Ricochet could taste the pleasure on him, knew Jazz had already overloaded once today, maybe even recently. But he was so revved up now, it was like no one had touched him in days.
He needed more than those playmates of his would give him.
“You need an owner,” Ricochet grunted as he thrust into his brother’s intake, over and over, long and deep strokes that took and took without offering anything back, just like Jazz wanted.
“Not just me either,” Ricochet continued as Jazz’s strokes picked up in earnest, and more lubricant spilled out of the corner of his mouth, trickling down his chin. “But someone who can really throw ya down and give ya what ya need.”
Ah, and what a picture it would be. Jazz, bound and splayed open, either gagged or with an o-ring, open for their pleasure. He’d beg for it with wordless noises and with every writhe of his frame, but they’d torment him, open him up, feed him ecstasy without letting him tip over the edge. They’d use him, and he’d thank them for it.
Ricochet groaned, his fingers tightening on his brother’s head. “You’re mine right now though. And that’s where yer gonna stay.” He thrust hard and deep, mashing Jazz’s nose against his base, and overloaded down his brother’s intake.
Jazz moaned, his field exploding with fiery satisfaction. He swallowed hard, sucking down every drop, and then he shuddered from head to foot, the smell of overload filling the air. Ricochet didn’t have to check to know Jazz had overloaded, splattering the ground with his transfluid.
Ricochet held himself deep, through every last tremor, before he let Jazz pull back, though he kept a firm grip on his brother’s jaw. He swept his thumb over Jazz’s chin, slick with lubricant and bubbles of transfluid. Jazz’s lips were swollen and slick, his visor hazy with satisfaction. It was a good look on him.
“I’m convinced,” Ricochet purred and yanked Jazz upward, slamming their mouths together. He tasted himself on Jazz’s glossa.
Jazz moaned, scrabbling at his chestplate before catching a grip in a seam. He hauled himself to straddling Ricochet’s leg, scrubbing his bared valve over Ricochet’s thigh.
“Primus, you’re sexy,” Ricochet growled as he jerked Jazz’s head up so he could bite at his twin’s intake, feeling the bob of Jazz’s swallow against his lips.
Jazz rocked harder. “Would ya even stand it if I had an owner that wasn’t you?” he gasped, his fingers sliding beneath Ricochet’s seams and shooting charge against his cables.
“Depends on the mech.” Ricochet grinned against Jazz’s intake and bit him hard enough to leave a mark.
Jazz jerked and another moan slipped out of his lips. “Good to know.”
Ricochet chuckled and sat back, admiring the rock and sway of Jazz on his leg. His brother had the monopoly on attractiveness. “So,” he said as he held Jazz by the thighs so he could grind himself however he wished, “what’s this favor you want of me?”
“It’s right up your alley,” Jazz said, voice a little raspy.
Ricochet smirked with pride. He curled a hand around his brother’s intake, half-squeezing, half-stroking to soothe the ache. Jazz’s visor flickered, his fingers curving into Ricochet’s seams.
“Go on,” Ricochet said.
Jazz licked his lips, his chin still glistening with fluids. “You remember that bar I work at, yeah?”
“‘Course.”
“The owner, Blurr’s, a friend o’ mine,” Jazz said with another rock of his hips, smearing lubricant on Ricochet’s thigh. “He’s in danger. I gotta figure out who so I can’t stick around to protect him.”
Ricochet barked a laugh and slid his other hand from Jazz’s hip to his groin, his thumb pressing in against Jazz’s anterior node cluster. His brother jerked, sucking in a sharp vent.
“So why me?”
“He’s stubborn.” Jazz’s head hung a little, his lips parted for small, breathy gasps. Bits of charge curled out from under his armor. “So are you. Figure he’s your kinda challenge.”
“Hmm.” Ricochet tilted his head and rubbed harder on Jazz’s node, hard enough to hurt, though all it did was make Jazz shudder and whine. “I do like a challenge.”
It wasn’t like he had anything else lined up. He didn’t have much in the ways of a job. Wasn’t much for a former special ops agent to do in a post-war world. Especially if that former agent was a Decepticon and not an Autobot.
Though Jazz was right. This was a pain in the aft assignment. Killing someone was easy. Keeping them alive? Entirely different set of skills. Luckily, Ricochet had both.
“Knew it.” Jazz panted and rocked his hips harder, grinding his valve down on Ricochet’s thigh. “So you’ll do it?”
“Well, yer makin’ it mighty hard for me to refuse.” Ricochet dropped his hand to his spike, pressurizing once more, and swept a thumb over the tip, gathering the pearl of pre-fluid. He swept it over Jazz’s lips, watched him lick it up. “Slut.”
Jazz grinned, and his visor flared with a bright yearning. “Wrapped around my finger,” he half-sang, half-gasped. His armor flared and more charge spilled out.
Ricochet laughed. “Yeah, probably,” he said, and yanked Jazz in for a kiss.
Weekdays were the quietest.
Blurr didn’t mind working the weekdays. It gave him time to go through inventory, reorganize his supplies, wipe down parts of his bar he didn’t always clean… In general, it allowed him to make sure New Maccadam’s was the best place to be any time of the week. Weekdays weren’t the credmakers, but they were important.
He had a grand total of three customers in his bar right now. Two were regulars, one was new. All of them quietly sipped their drinks in separate corners, three mechs who just wanted to be left alone to ruminate.
Blurr was happy to oblige.
He continued removing bottles of fine engex from the display behind the counter, readying a spray bottle and mesh cloth to wipe away the thin film of dust. It didn’t matter that he cleaned this weekly. He didn’t know where all the dust came from.
Cybertron was perpetually dirty, he figured.
The main door slid open, a small chime announcing a new customer. Blurr finished wiping one bottle, set it down, and turned to greet the newcomer.
“Oh, it’s just you,” Blurr said as he tossed the meshtowel over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be working?”
“Who says I’m not?” Jazz replied as he grinned and strode cockily up to the bar, another mech following at his heels.
Slightly taller and broader than Jazz, there was something familiar about the mech Blurr couldn’t quite place. He was mainly red and white, with patches of gray, and a bright yellow visor and a cocky smirk Blurr instantly hated.
“Fair point.” Blurr glanced past him at the mech before returning his attention to Jazz. “The usual?”
“Nope. I’m workin’. Can’t drink.” Jazz hopped up on a stool and braced his elbows on the counter, leaning forward. “Got a sec?”
Blurr spread his hands. “I’m buried in customers right now.”
“Smart aft.” Jazz chuckled and propped his chin on the heel of his palm. “So. You remember my brother, yeah?”
Ohhh. Right. Ricochet. The Decepticon brother Jazz didn’t like to talk about until the war was over, and then it was hard to get Jazz to shut up about him. Blurr didn’t have any siblings, so he couldn’t relate. But that explained the familiarity.
“We haven’t actually met,” Blurr said, giving Ricochet a sidelong look. “Why?”
Ricochet nudged his way against the counter next to Jazz, ignoring the stool beside him, choosing instead to stand and lean forward, crowding into his twin’s space. “I hear there’s a damsel in distress ‘round here. I came to make sure he stays alive and well.”
Blurr cycled his optics.
He glanced at Jazz, who had a slag-eating grin, and back to Ricochet, who echoed Jazz, but with a mouth of partially sharpened denta.
Realization struck.
“Damn it,” Blurr growled, and slammed the towel on the counter. “I told you I don’t need protection.”
“It’s not like yer the only one,” Jazz said with a rev of his engine. “Everyone else gets the special treatment, too.”
Blurr pressed his lips into a thin line. He glared, hoping the heat of it was enough to dissuade Jazz from this very stupid idea.
Jazz held up his hands and leaned back, the stool rocking beneath him. “Ya can’t get mad at me for trying to keep ya alive, Blurr. I ain’t gonna back down on this.”
“I should have a choice,” Blurr hissed, slamming his hands onto the counter.
“I could pull rank.”
“We don’t have rank anymore, you aft,” Blurr snapped. “I’m not in the army.”
Ricochet laughed, and his darker, deeper voice had no business making thrills dance down Blurr’s spinal strut. “You two are adorable.” He leaned against the counter, hands clasped in front of him. “Someone tries to save yer aft and you get mad about it? Who’s the real aft here, Speedy?”
“My name is Blurr,” he snapped with a sharp look Ricochet’s direction. “And I don’t owe you an answer.”
“Rico, you’re not helping.” Jazz scrubbed a hand around his mouth and sighed into his palm. “Look. I even made sure Whirl got a guard, okay? Though he’s arguably the safest of everyone. You’re not an exception, so just get over it. Rico won’t even get in your way.”
Blurr ground his denta. He snagged the meshcloth and scrubbed at the clean counter, attacking a divot in the polished metal. “I don’t like this.”
“I know ya don’t.” Jazz’s hand fell over his, stopping him from scrubbing. “But you’re doin’ me a favor if ya put up with it.”
“Does that mean you owe me a favor?” Blurr asked. He could think of a half dozen ways he could cash that in.
Ricochet laughed and nudged Jazz with an elbow. “Favors are your speciality,” he purred, leaning in to Jazz and nuzzling at his audial. “Aren’t they, bro?”
Jazz chuffed, only to still, his hand raising to his audial. He half-turned away from them. “Jazz here. What is it?”
Blurr glanced at Ricochet, and caught the other mech staring back at him, his visor sharp and cutting. It was too much like Jazz’s look for Blurr’s comfort. It sent a weird twinge through his sensor net.
“What? When?” Jazz’s tone turned sharp and angry. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t touch anything!”
He dropped his hand and whirled back toward them, his field a flash of frenzy before he coiled it behind a wall of emptiness.
“There’s been another killing,” Jazz said, and he drew his former authority around him like a mantle. “Another Wrecker dead. Ricochet, you stay on Blurr like a second paintjob,” he commanded, pointing at his twin before he turned that point on Blurr. “And you’ll take him as a bodyguard whether you like it or not. Understood?”
Ricochet lounged against the counter. “Whatever you say, bro.”
Blurr ground his denta and scrubbed at the divot again. “Fine. But we’re not done talking about this.”
“Yes, we are.”
Jazz left, without giving Blurr or Ricochet a chance to argue otherwise. Not that Blurr had an argument ready. It was hard to argue with Jazz when he took that tone, and a part of Blurr was too accustomed to obeying military authority now.
“Aft,” Blurr muttered.
“Primus, I love it when he gets like that,” Ricochet said with a long look at Jazz’s departing aft. His armor fluttered in a visible shiver of interest. “I’d bend him over a table right now if I could.” His glossa swept over his lips.
Blurr snorted and tossed the meshcloth into a basket for laundry. “Why am I not surprised that you’re as oversexed as your twin?”
“From what I hear, you’re not one ta talk,” Ricochet drawled and rapped his knuckles on the counter. “So what’s good here? Can I get a drink or ya gonna leave me here to thirst?”
Blurr narrowed his optics. “How are you going to be my bodyguard if you’re drunk?”
“Gonna take a lot more than a single drink to get me anywhere near incapacitated.” Ricochet grinned, and it was a lazy curl of his lips over sharp denta. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep that fine aft of yours safe.”
“Fantastic,” Blurr muttered. “This is going to be great.”
He grabbed the cheapest engex he had on draft and poured Ricochet a cup, sliding it over to him.
Ricochet’s visor fluttered in a wink, must’ve learned it from Jazz, and took a large gulp. He made no attempt to hide the fact he was admiring Blurr’s aft.
Argh.
Blurr didn’t like this one bit.
Jazz had never met Leadfoot. He didn’t know anything about the former Wrecker except what was written in his official file and what was written in his mission reports. He seemed like an alright mech.
He probably didn’t deserve what had been done to him.
It would’ve been easier to connect the murders if they’d all been committed in the same manner. He didn’t know why the murderer had been particularly atrocious to Leadfoot. Maybe it was personal.
Or maybe he (or she) was just upping the ante.
“I want to know how someone can do this to another mech,” Prowl said as he glared out the window, his back to the crime scene, every line of his armor painted in fury.
“Ya fought in the same war I did. Bots and Cons, we’ve done worst to each other,” Jazz replied.
Once upon a time, he would have seen the mess of a mech like this and been sick to his tanks. The war had hardened him. Despite the splatter of brain bits, the streaks of energon blood, and the armor pieces flung about, Jazz barely blinked.
“You misunderstand.” Prowl’s tone could have frozen a magma flow. His sensory panels stiffened. “I understand the horrors we are incapable of inflicting. What I don’t understand is why there is a maniac loose to do it when my best spy has reassured me he’s on the case.”
Jazz stood, stepping over the mangled corpse of a former Autobot. “Rules are different now, Prowl. We can’t play things the way we used to. You know that.”
Prowl shifted to see him over the jut of a shoulder and sensory panel. “Maybe it’s time we revisited old methods.”
“What’s Prime say about that?”
“Maybe Prime doesn’t have to know.”
Jazz’s insides clenched. He wasn’t particularly loyal to the office of the Prime. He’d always been loyal to his own moral code. Rodimus was trying, just as hard as Optimus had, but they were both very faliable mechs.
He moved closer to Prowl, so no one could hear their conversation. Some might call it treacherous.
“I want this to end. The people of Cybertron need this to end,” Prowl murmured, wisely lowering the volume. “I don’t want anymore of my Autobots being slaughtered. Do whatever it takes, Jazz. That’s why I trusted you with this in the first place.”
Jazz bobbed on his heelstruts. “Full permission?”
Prowl slanted him a look. “Don’t take too much advantage of it.”
"Since when have I ever done that?"
Double-shifts were an inevitability.
New Maccadam's was Blurr's bar, his pride and joy. He worked long hours, always on his feet, and he served and cleaned and mixed like the rest of his employees. He took the good shifts, he took the slag shifts, he took the double-shifts.
Today was not a good day for a double-shift. It wasn't because business was slow, per the usual for a weekday. It wasn't because he'd had a supply delivery and spent a good portion of the shift hauling heavy boxes into the back.
It was because Ricochet wouldn't stop staring at him.
The aft didn't say anything. He just parked in a booth with a datapad and a revolving order of cheap engex, which he consumed steadily but never seemed to suffer any ill effects. When he wasn't engrossed in his datapad -- on which he was playing a game, Blurr had peeked when he'd gone by for a refill -- he was staring.
At Blurr.
Expression inscrutable thanks to the visor, the curve of one corner of Ricochet's mouth told Blurr all he needed to know. Ricochet wasn't just staring. He was leering.
He was Jazz's twin through and through.
He didn't act embarrassed either. When Blurr caught him looking, he kept staring. He held Blurr's gaze, shifted to get a better look, made no attempt to hide what he was doing.
Blurr was used to being stared at. It came with the territory of being a winner in the racing circuit, adored by fans and hated by the envious. He was used to being ogled. He was a bartender. Part of selling the product involved a wink and a grin and a little bit of a flirt.
Ricochet's stare was heavier than it all. Like he was imagining all the different ways he could take Blurr and make him scream.
The thought sent a shiver up his spinal strut. Which only made Blurr angrier. He didn't want to be attracted to Ricochet, but the annoying aft came in a pretty package, and there was something about that kind of raw confidence Blurr appreciated. Some might have called it arrogance, but Blurr knew a little something about arrogance himself.
"I'm closing soon," Blurr informed him as he swept up Ricochet's empty and replaced it. "I suppose that means you'll be heading home."
"Nope." Ricochet popped the word and leaned back, a lazy smirk on his lips. "You 'n me are gonna be roommates until big bro gives the all clear."
Blurr reared back. "What?"
"I wouldn't be much of a bodyguard if I sent ya home alone." Ricochet swept up the engex and gave it a long swallow, licking his lips afterward. "Hope your berth fits two."
"Even if it did, you wouldn't be invited into it," Blurr snapped, and his engine revved. Oh, he and Jazz would have words. "Besides, I have plans tonight. I don't need you tagging along."
"Cancel them."
Blurr glared. "No."
Ricochet shrugged. "Then I guess I'm goin' with ya." He tipped back his cube and finished it off with a noisy, annoying smack of his lips. "Lemme know when it's time to go." He kicked back, scooped up his datapad, and started playing his game again.
Blurr squared his jaw. Opened his mouth to argue. Realized it would get him nowhere. Snapped his jaw shut again. He spun on a heelstrut and stormed back toward his bar.
Double-shifts were the worst.
