[IDW] A Perfect Storm 03/16
Apr. 22nd, 2019 06:03 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 Three
Blurr dragged out his closing routine. He half-hoped it would annoy Ricochet enough to leave. He might have also been delaying going home because Ricochet was apparently coming with him.
Jazz owed him several favors for this.
But weekdays were slow days so he'd spent all day cleaning and restocking and making his bar shine, which meant once it was time to close, he had nothing left to do.
Ricochet, he noticed, didn't offer to help. He was content to drink for free ("Put it on Jazz's tab," he'd said with a leer.) and take up space in a booth.
Aft.
"Come on, let's go," Blurr said as he tossed the last meshcloth into the laundry bin and flicked the lights to ten percent. Cybertron was not so well off he could afford to waste energy.
Ricochet made a show of stowing his datapad and rising from the booth, pulling his arms over his head in an exaggerated stretch. Armor creaked. Gaps showed gleaming cables beneath which Blurr did not at all let his gaze linger over.
"Where to?"
"Home." Blurr checked the front doors first before leading Ricochet to the back entrance and the security panel.
Ricochet stayed on his heelstruts, uncomfortably close. He radiated heat like a furnace. "Thought ya had plans?"
Blurr glared at him, not that it seemed to phase Ricochet one bit. "I'm not going to meet up with Tracks while you're hanging off my aft." Tracks had been disappointed, and Blurr just knew, as soon as Blurr hung up, Tracks had gotten on the phone with Mirage.
"Ohhh. That kind of rendezvous, hm? Why didn't you say so?" Ricochet leaned in closer, all heat and promise, his field buzzing along Blurr's. "I can take care of that for ya, if ya want."
"I'll let you know when I get that desperate," Blurr drawled.
Ricochet laughed and leaned back out of his space, taking the buzzing warmth of his field with him. Blurr refused to mourn the loss, no matter how fast his spark cycled, or how much heat pooled lazy and hungry in his belly. He hated missing out on a night with Tracks.
Jazz’s tab steadily grew more expensive.
Blurr locked up, and they stepped out into nightcycle, the sky dark and pockmarked with stars. Last week, they'd been caught in the orbit of a weak star, and it had held onto them long enough to frag with everyone's idea of day and night cycle before Cybertron surged free and kept going.
He didn't live far from New Maccadam’s. One day, he hoped to renovate an apartment over the bar, so he wouldn't even have to leave the building to go home. It was on the list, but there were a lot more construction projects ahead of his in the queue. He didn’t have enough free creds to hire a freelance crew either, so it on the waiting list for government-approved free construction it was.
Ricochet whistled as they walked to the multi-storey complex of apartments where Blurr lived. "Figures you'd be livin' the high life," he said as he tilted his head back and looked up the length of it. "Lemme guess? Penthouse?"
Blurr snorted. "Upper floors are reserved for fliers. So, no." He slanted Ricochet a look. "You do realize there's a difference between what I had before the war and what I can have now, right?"
"Sucks, don't it?"
Blurr chose not to answer that.
He lived on the third floor, in a modest apartment with modest furnishings and modest space. He had all he needed to live here, and there was nothing of the ostentatious lifestyle he'd once had. Strangely, he didn’t miss it at all. He had what he needed.
He didn't have a secondary berthroom or a secondary berth. The couch would be a tight squeeze, but if Ricochet insisted on sticking around, that was his problem, not Blurr's.
"I'd tell you to make yourself at home, but I don't really want you here," Blurr said as the door closed behind them, and Blurr was acutely aware of how small his apartment actually was.
Or maybe it was just that Ricochet seemed to fill so much of the space.
"I'm hurt, Zippy. I thought you and my brother were such good friends."
"You might be twins, but my feelings for Jazz don’t automatically transfer to you," Blurr said with a huff. He was agitated, and he hated that it showed.
News of a serial murderer was not pleasant to receive, and having a bodyguard didn’t reassure him. Blurr was used to having targets on his back, but he’d thought he was done with that with the war behind them.
He'd wanted to overload and recharge in the aftermath. Not stalk around his apartment with Ricochet on his heelstruts, managing to be both attractive and annoying all at once.
"Shame," Ricochet said, and finally backed off. He walked the perimeter of Blurr's apartment, checking the windows, peering into doorways, acclimatizing himself to the layout, Blurr supposed. Maybe he was going to take this bodyguard duty seriously.
He didn't wear his Decepticon badge anymore, Blurr noticed earlier. Not that many people did. Some still wore their badges with pride, some had been all too happy to scrub them off once the truce was declared and solidified and held.
Somehow, that Ricochet had once been a Decepticon was not the most disconcerting thing about him.
Blurr left him to it and stepped into the washrack to rinse away the day's dirt. He stood under the solvent spray for longer than was necessary, the heat of it suffusing his sore cables. His hand crept to his panel, palm scrubbing down over it, his array heating up beneath.
His hand was not nearly a substitute for Tracks. Blurr knocked his forehead against the wall beneath the spray and rubbed harder, debating. He could take care of this now, for however partially satisfying it would be.
He was, however, acutely aware of Ricochet in his apartment, on the other side of the door, poking his nose into whatever.
Blurr was only as picky about his berthpartners as he needed to be. Attractiveness was necessary, fondness not so much. He preferred someone who wasn't looking for a commitment.
He technically preferred mechs who weren't Decepticons.
But he was tempted. As much as Ricochet ground his gears, Blurr was tempted. How much was he like Jazz, Blurr wondered, because down that road was a very good time.
"Blurr?" Ricochet called through the door, following it with a rap of his knuckles, and Blurr startled out of his absent musings. "Alive in there or do I need to come in and rescue ya?"
He jabbed the shut off switch, ending the stream. "I'm fine."
No reply.
Small favors.
Blurr toweled off quickly, ignoring the lazy throb of arousal curling in his groin. Frustration set in, and he clenched his denta, jaw aching. He stepped out of the washrack and immediately impacted with Ricochet's chassis.
"Why are you in the way?" Blurr demanded as he abruptly stepped back, out of immediate contact.
Ricochet grinned, and the lazy arrogance of it should not have been so attractive. "I was worried," he said without sounding as though he was concerned at all.
"I'm not helpless." Blurr pushed past Ricochet, shoulder-checking him. Ricochet didn’t move an inch. He was more massive than Blurr, and interestingly, Jazz.
Blurr was familiar with twins. He’d befriended Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, as much as one could befriend the latter. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were a lot more similar in build than Jazz and Ricochet.
"Needin' looking after don't make ya helpless." Ricochet followed at a leisurely pace. "Just means ya got someone who cares."
"If I wanted your opinion, I would've asked for it," Blurr retorted with a roll of his optics.
Ricochet loosed a rolling chuckle. "Primus, you're feisty. No wonder Jazz likes ya so much." He leaned a hip against the couch, crossing his arms over his chassis. "There's probably a better use for your mouth than talking though."
Blurr's face heated. He whipped around and glared at Ricochet. "You wish," he snarled.
Ricochet's visor glinted, like he was looking Blurr up and down. "I wouldn't say no if I found ya in my berth, just sayin'. You're pretty 'nough."
"I don't frag 'Cons."
"I ain't a Con anymore. Not that it matters."
Blurr lifted a chin. "Yeah. You strike me as the type with conflicting loyalties."
Ricochet cocked his head. The light behind his visor darkened. "That so?" he asked, and his tone went rough, like footsteps over gravel. "Ya know me so well, do ya?" He pushed off the couch, stalked closer, his field preceding him in a mighty wave of sizzling heat. "Got me all figured out?"
"It wasn't exactly hard." Blurr unconsciously backed up, and his aft hit the wall, just next to his berthroom.
"Yeah, yer no mystery either, Zippy," Ricochet said, and his glossa flicked over his lips, his steps measured and encroaching. "I've had you pegged since the moment we met."
“Really.” It wasn’t a question.
Ricochet grinned, but there was nothing amused about it. He caged Blurr against the wall, hands planted to either side of Blurr’s shoulders.
“You were sparked,” he said. “You were born in a field, given to a fresh protoform, and slid right into life where you belonged. You’ve had luxury, you’ve had worship, and you’ve had everything your spark ever desired.”
Blurr scowled. “You’re generalizing.”
“I’m callin’ it like I see it. And I see privilege in you.” Ricochet tilted his head, the weight of his gaze cutting. “You’re damn lucky you survived the war.”
Blurr folded his arms and darkened his glare, no matter how much the heat of Ricochet’s proximity enticed him. “It’s a little something called skill.”
“Sure it is.” Ricochet purred at him, and Blurr refused to admit that it buzzed down his spinal strut and pooled in his tanks. “So go on. Tell me how much ya can’t stand the sight of me and my Decepticon ways.”
“You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“That’s ‘cause you ain’t so good at actually sayin’ them.” Ricochet chuckled, and this time, there was actual humor in it, rather than an offhand threat. “Yer prancin’ around it, but I know what ya want.”
Ricochet dropped one hand, and Blurr tensed. He didn’t know Ricochet enough to guess what his next move would be, and it was only his friendship with Jazz which gave him a smidgen of trust toward Ricochet.
Fingers touched his chin, knuckles under it, tilting his head up so he had no choice but to look into Ricochet’s visor. He was only slightly taller, but looming like this seemed to exaggerate the difference.
Ricochet leaned in close enough for Blurr to taste his ex-vents, to anticipate the touch of their lips.
“But I’m not gonna give it to ya until you tell me you want it,” he said, and his visor gleamed a deep, vibrant amber. “So. Your move, Speedy.”
Blurr’s ventilations stuttered. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“Oh, the lies ya tell.” Ricochet laughed and dropped his hand from Blurr’s chin, leaning back to put a respectable distance between them. “There’s a couch callin’ my name. Recharge well.” He fluttered his visor in a wink and turned away.
Blurr panicked.
“Fine!”
Ricochet paused. “You talkin’ to me?” he asked, but the slag-eating grin was pure Jazz, and oh, how Blurr loathed him for it.
“You heard me.” Blurr lifted his chin. “If I’m going to be stuck with you, I might as well get something out of it.”
There was a moment before Ricochet laughed. Literally, threw his head back and laughed. He turned back to Blurr and grabbed his chin again, more forceful this time, and Blurr swallowed down an aroused groan.
“Is this where ya tell me you’re doin’ me a favor?” Ricochet asked as he shoved his face against Blurr’s intake, denta grazing over the cables. “Or is it where you kick up a fuss by callin’ bad deeds about the evil, evil Con in your loft?”
Blurr shivered, arousal surging anew in his groin, doubling back where the heat had dulled during their brief interchange. “You only think you know me.”
“I know all I need ta know.” Ricochet’s denta sunk in, hard enough to dent, and Blurr jerked, knocking back against the wall, his sensornet exploding with charge.
He moaned and grabbed Ricochet’s sides, hauling the mech in close enough to grind hard against him.
“Frag me,” Blurr said. “For the love of Primus, make yourself useful and frag me.”
Ricochet chuckled. “That’s all I needed to hear.”
Blurr wanted to snarl at the arrogance in Ricochet’s tone, but the mech bit him again, and the sharp pain sent a dizzying wave of want through his frame. Blurr moaned, knees wobbling, and then hands were on his hips, lifting him up, pinning him against the wall. Ricochet thrust against him, grinding their panels together.
“Open,” Ricochet demanded.
Another lightning bolt of want zapped up Blurr’s spinal strut. His cover popped open before he gave it conscious thought, and he wrapped his legs around Ricochet’s waist, gripping Ricochet’s shoulders as his back scraped against the wall.
“Good mech,” Ricochet purred and the hot, blunt pressure of a spike nudged at Blurr’s valve before Ricochet sank into him in one quick thrust.
Blurr arched, a whine slipping from his lips, his valve rippling around the thick length. Sensors pinged an abrupt onslaught of sensation, and he scrabbled to keep his grip, vision filling with static as pleasure flashed through his sensornet.
There was nothing gentle about it. Blurr didn’t want there to be anything gentle about it. He wanted this, hard and fast and furious, his back scraping against the wall, a hot spike piercing him over and over.
Ricochet’s denta on his intake, his hot vents scorching Blurr’s cables, and his bites leaving a dull, aching pressure. It shouldn’t have aroused Blurr, but it ramped up his charge anyway, sending little bursts of static-fire through his frame.
Ricochet growled, like a beast, and fragged him harder, sharp, abrupt thrusts that dragged along his nodes over and over again, until he bottomed out and ground against Blurr’s ceiling node. Blurr jerked, spasming between Ricochet and the wall, overload surging through his system in a crackle of webbed charge.
Blurr moaned and rode Ricochet’s thrusts, extending his overload, vents pouring heat into the air as Ricochet snarled and bit down, pounding deep, until the hot splatter of his transfluid painted Blurr’s valve.
“Frag, frag, frag,” Blurr heard himself chanting, as if from a distance, as his entire frame rattled, pleasure making him twitch and writhe in Ricochet’s grasp.
Ricochet chuckled darkly. “Thought that’s what I was doin’.” Self-satisfaction flooded his tone as he dragged his mouth down and bit the top edge of Blurr’s chestplate. “Got any more in ya?”
“As many as you think you can manage,” Blurr challenged while his sensory net tingled, and his valve fluttered around Ricochet’s spike, straining for more charge.
“Good.” Ricochet purred.
Blurr’s world turned upside down. Or something like it. Next thing he knew, he was tossed over Ricochet’s shoulder, lubricant and transfluid seeping out of his valve to paint his thighs. He bounced as Ricochet moved, carrying him with ease.
“What’re you doing?” Blurr demanded, his processor spinning.
“Left enough paint on yer walls, I think,” Ricochet said before Blurr’s world spun around him again, and Ricochet unceremoniously tossed him toward the berth.
He bounced for a moment before Ricochet was on him, flipping him onto his front and nudging between his thighs, spikehead grinding against his rim. Denta seized the back of Blurr’s neck, and he moaned, pressing his forehead into the berth, aft tilting up invitingly.
Ricochet slid back into him. Blurr fisted the berth covers, and as he was filled to the brim, his sensitized nodes tingled back toward overload.
“This doesn’t mean I like you,” Blurr gasped out as he dug his knees into the berth and pushed back into the cradle of Ricochet’s hips, driving his spike deeper.
Ricochet chuckled against the back of his neck. “Sure it doesn’t,” he said, and thrust harder.
Blurr groaned, sparks dancing in his visual feed. Thank Primus he didn’t have to open tomorrow.
It was going to be a long night.
~
It was starting to become a habit.
Jazz spread out his notes. It was easier, now that he knew Wreckers were the target. But he still didn’t have an answer.
Was it a group of mechs or an individual? Was it an Autobot or a Decepticon? What was the motive? Who was next?
He’d interviewed all the former Wreckers who would talk to him. No one had any fingers to point. Their enemies were either dead or not on planet. The few Decepticons Jazz might have suspected were squeaky clean with solid alibis and anyway, the means didn’t match their capabilities.
Jazz was certain the perpetrator was a special ops agent like himself. That was the only way they could get the drop on a Wrecker.
Unless it was another Wrecker. Someone they would have trusted. No, no. Jazz dismissed that line of thought immediately. Not all of these Wreckers served at the same time. Some of them hadn’t even known the others, save by reputation alone. Wreckers were a suspicious lot, like spies in that regard.
Besides, Wreckers tended to be brute force, not finesse, and Pyro’s death had been clean and precise. Classic execution. That right there had pointed fingers at a Spec Ops agent.
Jazz already knew it wasn’t one of his. He’d asked, and Prowl swore it wasn’t one of his either. He’d also gone on to swear he wasn’t the one behind the deaths.
Jazz had intended to ask. Was it suspicious Prowl answered before he asked? No, not really. Prowl wasn’t stupid. He knew mechs considered him the mastermind for a lot of things. Besides, what motive would there be? Sure Prowl hadn’t gotten along with the Wreckers much, but they were useful, and Prowl never discarded anything useful.
Jazz sighed and scrubbed his forehead. So far, he was doing a bang-up job of deciding who it wasn’t while his list of who it could be remained blank.
Frag it.
Click.
“Not going so well?”
Jazz looked up as Bluestreak slid into the table across from him, sliding a cube toward him. “How is it ya always show up when I need a miracle?”
Bluestreak snorted. “It just seems that way.” He tilted his head, optics skimming over the information on the datapads. “That looks like a mess. And I know a little something about messes. Any leads?”
“No.” Jazz grabbed the cube and sipped the mid-grade, wishing it were something stronger, but he needed his wits about him right now. “Whoever this is, they’re good.”
“Better than you?”
Jazz’s lips quirked into a sliding scale smile. “No one’s better’n me, Blue.” He half-flashed his visor in a wink.
Bluestreak chuckled and folded his arms against the edge of the table, leaning forward. His sensory panels twitched behind him, and Jazz’s gaze was drawn to them again, admiring their edges, their shine, wondering how they’d taste on his glossa.
Primus, he had it bad.
“Maybe I can help again.” Bluestreak touched one datapad with a finger and dragged it closer, peering at the contents. It was a summary of the causes of death, Jazz realized. Bluestreak didn’t blink at the gory details. Then again, why would he? Masterful sharpshooter that he was.
“I’ll take all the help I can get,” Jazz slid into a lazy recline against the back of the chair. “You’re not workin’ right?”
“I’m taking over for Riptide here in a bit. I just saw you over here looking lost and agitated, so I thought a drink might help,” Bluestreak said, his tone absent as though he was giving the information serious thought. “Wow. This maniac is thorough. There’s anger in these deaths, Jazz. This isn’t business. This is personal.”
Jazz nodded and sucked in a slow vent. “Shame.”
“Yeah. It is. It’s peacetime, we’re supposed to be safe.”
“Not what I meant.”
Bluestreak cycled his optics and looked up. “I knew what you meant,” he said, and his tone was quiet. “It’s not a good idea. It wasn’t the first time, and it’s still not now.”
Jazz hated that answer. It was a non-answer. It told him nothing. “Why?”
Bluestreak sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. “This is more than personal,” he said, tapping the datapad pointedly. “You asked Smokescreen about this? Because you need a psychological profile to narrow it down. I’m thinking this is a mech who felt betrayed. Abandoned maybe. This is an anger that’s been building for a long, long time.”
Jazz leaned forward, put his hand on the datapad, blocking the information. “Why?” he repeated.
“You don’t want to hear the answer.”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked.”
Bluestreak sighed and lifted his gaze to Jazz again. “If it didn’t mean anything, I would have said yes already. I’m not immune to flirting, Jazz, and I’m not blind either. I’ve noticed.”
Jazz shifted in the seat, feeling stripped open beneath Bluestreak’s optics. “And?”
“And I don’t think I’m what you want.” Bluestreak let go of the datapad and leaned back, taking the tasty hints of his field with him. “I don’t think you even know what you want, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want what I have. Or even if you did want it, you’re not ready for it. I don’t play, Jazz. Not like you do. If I take something, I keep it.”
Jazz worked his intake, his ventilations hitching, and he fought like the Pit to force the heat down into the depths of his belly where it belonged, rather than in his field and throughout his frame. “What if I want to be kept?”
“Think about whether or not you mean that, and what you’re offering.” Bluestreak stood, sliding out of the booth, and though his words were serious, his smile was gentle. “I mean it, Jazz. Think about it. Don’t just assume you’ve got it figured out and come to me because this is something new and exciting you want to try.”
Jazz licked his lips, his ventilations shallow. “What do ya want to do to me, Blue?”
The edge of a smile turned wicked. “I have a list.” Bluestreak rapped his knuckles on the counter. “See you later, Jazz. Good luck with the investigation.”
He left, and Jazz watched him go with a hunger gnawing deep in the pit of his tanks, a hunger the midgrade on the table in front of him wouldn’t sate.
Though Bluestreak had a point, and Jazz knew he did. He needed to see Smokescreen for a psychological profile, because if he could find some reason in the madness, then maybe Jazz could narrow down his suspect pool enough to make an actionable actual list.
So much to do, so little time.
Jazz gathered up his datapads, downed the drink Bluestreak had given him in one fell swoop, and swept out of the bar. But not before he looked over his shoulder to see Bluestreak watching him go with an equally hungry look.
Jazz shivered.
He had some serious thinking to do.
**
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.
Blurr dragged out his closing routine. He half-hoped it would annoy Ricochet enough to leave. He might have also been delaying going home because Ricochet was apparently coming with him.
Jazz owed him several favors for this.
But weekdays were slow days so he'd spent all day cleaning and restocking and making his bar shine, which meant once it was time to close, he had nothing left to do.
Ricochet, he noticed, didn't offer to help. He was content to drink for free ("Put it on Jazz's tab," he'd said with a leer.) and take up space in a booth.
Aft.
"Come on, let's go," Blurr said as he tossed the last meshcloth into the laundry bin and flicked the lights to ten percent. Cybertron was not so well off he could afford to waste energy.
Ricochet made a show of stowing his datapad and rising from the booth, pulling his arms over his head in an exaggerated stretch. Armor creaked. Gaps showed gleaming cables beneath which Blurr did not at all let his gaze linger over.
"Where to?"
"Home." Blurr checked the front doors first before leading Ricochet to the back entrance and the security panel.
Ricochet stayed on his heelstruts, uncomfortably close. He radiated heat like a furnace. "Thought ya had plans?"
Blurr glared at him, not that it seemed to phase Ricochet one bit. "I'm not going to meet up with Tracks while you're hanging off my aft." Tracks had been disappointed, and Blurr just knew, as soon as Blurr hung up, Tracks had gotten on the phone with Mirage.
"Ohhh. That kind of rendezvous, hm? Why didn't you say so?" Ricochet leaned in closer, all heat and promise, his field buzzing along Blurr's. "I can take care of that for ya, if ya want."
"I'll let you know when I get that desperate," Blurr drawled.
Ricochet laughed and leaned back out of his space, taking the buzzing warmth of his field with him. Blurr refused to mourn the loss, no matter how fast his spark cycled, or how much heat pooled lazy and hungry in his belly. He hated missing out on a night with Tracks.
Jazz’s tab steadily grew more expensive.
Blurr locked up, and they stepped out into nightcycle, the sky dark and pockmarked with stars. Last week, they'd been caught in the orbit of a weak star, and it had held onto them long enough to frag with everyone's idea of day and night cycle before Cybertron surged free and kept going.
He didn't live far from New Maccadam’s. One day, he hoped to renovate an apartment over the bar, so he wouldn't even have to leave the building to go home. It was on the list, but there were a lot more construction projects ahead of his in the queue. He didn’t have enough free creds to hire a freelance crew either, so it on the waiting list for government-approved free construction it was.
Ricochet whistled as they walked to the multi-storey complex of apartments where Blurr lived. "Figures you'd be livin' the high life," he said as he tilted his head back and looked up the length of it. "Lemme guess? Penthouse?"
Blurr snorted. "Upper floors are reserved for fliers. So, no." He slanted Ricochet a look. "You do realize there's a difference between what I had before the war and what I can have now, right?"
"Sucks, don't it?"
Blurr chose not to answer that.
He lived on the third floor, in a modest apartment with modest furnishings and modest space. He had all he needed to live here, and there was nothing of the ostentatious lifestyle he'd once had. Strangely, he didn’t miss it at all. He had what he needed.
He didn't have a secondary berthroom or a secondary berth. The couch would be a tight squeeze, but if Ricochet insisted on sticking around, that was his problem, not Blurr's.
"I'd tell you to make yourself at home, but I don't really want you here," Blurr said as the door closed behind them, and Blurr was acutely aware of how small his apartment actually was.
Or maybe it was just that Ricochet seemed to fill so much of the space.
"I'm hurt, Zippy. I thought you and my brother were such good friends."
"You might be twins, but my feelings for Jazz don’t automatically transfer to you," Blurr said with a huff. He was agitated, and he hated that it showed.
News of a serial murderer was not pleasant to receive, and having a bodyguard didn’t reassure him. Blurr was used to having targets on his back, but he’d thought he was done with that with the war behind them.
He'd wanted to overload and recharge in the aftermath. Not stalk around his apartment with Ricochet on his heelstruts, managing to be both attractive and annoying all at once.
"Shame," Ricochet said, and finally backed off. He walked the perimeter of Blurr's apartment, checking the windows, peering into doorways, acclimatizing himself to the layout, Blurr supposed. Maybe he was going to take this bodyguard duty seriously.
He didn't wear his Decepticon badge anymore, Blurr noticed earlier. Not that many people did. Some still wore their badges with pride, some had been all too happy to scrub them off once the truce was declared and solidified and held.
Somehow, that Ricochet had once been a Decepticon was not the most disconcerting thing about him.
Blurr left him to it and stepped into the washrack to rinse away the day's dirt. He stood under the solvent spray for longer than was necessary, the heat of it suffusing his sore cables. His hand crept to his panel, palm scrubbing down over it, his array heating up beneath.
His hand was not nearly a substitute for Tracks. Blurr knocked his forehead against the wall beneath the spray and rubbed harder, debating. He could take care of this now, for however partially satisfying it would be.
He was, however, acutely aware of Ricochet in his apartment, on the other side of the door, poking his nose into whatever.
Blurr was only as picky about his berthpartners as he needed to be. Attractiveness was necessary, fondness not so much. He preferred someone who wasn't looking for a commitment.
He technically preferred mechs who weren't Decepticons.
But he was tempted. As much as Ricochet ground his gears, Blurr was tempted. How much was he like Jazz, Blurr wondered, because down that road was a very good time.
"Blurr?" Ricochet called through the door, following it with a rap of his knuckles, and Blurr startled out of his absent musings. "Alive in there or do I need to come in and rescue ya?"
He jabbed the shut off switch, ending the stream. "I'm fine."
No reply.
Small favors.
Blurr toweled off quickly, ignoring the lazy throb of arousal curling in his groin. Frustration set in, and he clenched his denta, jaw aching. He stepped out of the washrack and immediately impacted with Ricochet's chassis.
"Why are you in the way?" Blurr demanded as he abruptly stepped back, out of immediate contact.
Ricochet grinned, and the lazy arrogance of it should not have been so attractive. "I was worried," he said without sounding as though he was concerned at all.
"I'm not helpless." Blurr pushed past Ricochet, shoulder-checking him. Ricochet didn’t move an inch. He was more massive than Blurr, and interestingly, Jazz.
Blurr was familiar with twins. He’d befriended Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, as much as one could befriend the latter. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were a lot more similar in build than Jazz and Ricochet.
"Needin' looking after don't make ya helpless." Ricochet followed at a leisurely pace. "Just means ya got someone who cares."
"If I wanted your opinion, I would've asked for it," Blurr retorted with a roll of his optics.
Ricochet loosed a rolling chuckle. "Primus, you're feisty. No wonder Jazz likes ya so much." He leaned a hip against the couch, crossing his arms over his chassis. "There's probably a better use for your mouth than talking though."
Blurr's face heated. He whipped around and glared at Ricochet. "You wish," he snarled.
Ricochet's visor glinted, like he was looking Blurr up and down. "I wouldn't say no if I found ya in my berth, just sayin'. You're pretty 'nough."
"I don't frag 'Cons."
"I ain't a Con anymore. Not that it matters."
Blurr lifted a chin. "Yeah. You strike me as the type with conflicting loyalties."
Ricochet cocked his head. The light behind his visor darkened. "That so?" he asked, and his tone went rough, like footsteps over gravel. "Ya know me so well, do ya?" He pushed off the couch, stalked closer, his field preceding him in a mighty wave of sizzling heat. "Got me all figured out?"
"It wasn't exactly hard." Blurr unconsciously backed up, and his aft hit the wall, just next to his berthroom.
"Yeah, yer no mystery either, Zippy," Ricochet said, and his glossa flicked over his lips, his steps measured and encroaching. "I've had you pegged since the moment we met."
“Really.” It wasn’t a question.
Ricochet grinned, but there was nothing amused about it. He caged Blurr against the wall, hands planted to either side of Blurr’s shoulders.
“You were sparked,” he said. “You were born in a field, given to a fresh protoform, and slid right into life where you belonged. You’ve had luxury, you’ve had worship, and you’ve had everything your spark ever desired.”
Blurr scowled. “You’re generalizing.”
“I’m callin’ it like I see it. And I see privilege in you.” Ricochet tilted his head, the weight of his gaze cutting. “You’re damn lucky you survived the war.”
Blurr folded his arms and darkened his glare, no matter how much the heat of Ricochet’s proximity enticed him. “It’s a little something called skill.”
“Sure it is.” Ricochet purred at him, and Blurr refused to admit that it buzzed down his spinal strut and pooled in his tanks. “So go on. Tell me how much ya can’t stand the sight of me and my Decepticon ways.”
“You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“That’s ‘cause you ain’t so good at actually sayin’ them.” Ricochet chuckled, and this time, there was actual humor in it, rather than an offhand threat. “Yer prancin’ around it, but I know what ya want.”
Ricochet dropped one hand, and Blurr tensed. He didn’t know Ricochet enough to guess what his next move would be, and it was only his friendship with Jazz which gave him a smidgen of trust toward Ricochet.
Fingers touched his chin, knuckles under it, tilting his head up so he had no choice but to look into Ricochet’s visor. He was only slightly taller, but looming like this seemed to exaggerate the difference.
Ricochet leaned in close enough for Blurr to taste his ex-vents, to anticipate the touch of their lips.
“But I’m not gonna give it to ya until you tell me you want it,” he said, and his visor gleamed a deep, vibrant amber. “So. Your move, Speedy.”
Blurr’s ventilations stuttered. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“Oh, the lies ya tell.” Ricochet laughed and dropped his hand from Blurr’s chin, leaning back to put a respectable distance between them. “There’s a couch callin’ my name. Recharge well.” He fluttered his visor in a wink and turned away.
Blurr panicked.
“Fine!”
Ricochet paused. “You talkin’ to me?” he asked, but the slag-eating grin was pure Jazz, and oh, how Blurr loathed him for it.
“You heard me.” Blurr lifted his chin. “If I’m going to be stuck with you, I might as well get something out of it.”
There was a moment before Ricochet laughed. Literally, threw his head back and laughed. He turned back to Blurr and grabbed his chin again, more forceful this time, and Blurr swallowed down an aroused groan.
“Is this where ya tell me you’re doin’ me a favor?” Ricochet asked as he shoved his face against Blurr’s intake, denta grazing over the cables. “Or is it where you kick up a fuss by callin’ bad deeds about the evil, evil Con in your loft?”
Blurr shivered, arousal surging anew in his groin, doubling back where the heat had dulled during their brief interchange. “You only think you know me.”
“I know all I need ta know.” Ricochet’s denta sunk in, hard enough to dent, and Blurr jerked, knocking back against the wall, his sensornet exploding with charge.
He moaned and grabbed Ricochet’s sides, hauling the mech in close enough to grind hard against him.
“Frag me,” Blurr said. “For the love of Primus, make yourself useful and frag me.”
Ricochet chuckled. “That’s all I needed to hear.”
Blurr wanted to snarl at the arrogance in Ricochet’s tone, but the mech bit him again, and the sharp pain sent a dizzying wave of want through his frame. Blurr moaned, knees wobbling, and then hands were on his hips, lifting him up, pinning him against the wall. Ricochet thrust against him, grinding their panels together.
“Open,” Ricochet demanded.
Another lightning bolt of want zapped up Blurr’s spinal strut. His cover popped open before he gave it conscious thought, and he wrapped his legs around Ricochet’s waist, gripping Ricochet’s shoulders as his back scraped against the wall.
“Good mech,” Ricochet purred and the hot, blunt pressure of a spike nudged at Blurr’s valve before Ricochet sank into him in one quick thrust.
Blurr arched, a whine slipping from his lips, his valve rippling around the thick length. Sensors pinged an abrupt onslaught of sensation, and he scrabbled to keep his grip, vision filling with static as pleasure flashed through his sensornet.
There was nothing gentle about it. Blurr didn’t want there to be anything gentle about it. He wanted this, hard and fast and furious, his back scraping against the wall, a hot spike piercing him over and over.
Ricochet’s denta on his intake, his hot vents scorching Blurr’s cables, and his bites leaving a dull, aching pressure. It shouldn’t have aroused Blurr, but it ramped up his charge anyway, sending little bursts of static-fire through his frame.
Ricochet growled, like a beast, and fragged him harder, sharp, abrupt thrusts that dragged along his nodes over and over again, until he bottomed out and ground against Blurr’s ceiling node. Blurr jerked, spasming between Ricochet and the wall, overload surging through his system in a crackle of webbed charge.
Blurr moaned and rode Ricochet’s thrusts, extending his overload, vents pouring heat into the air as Ricochet snarled and bit down, pounding deep, until the hot splatter of his transfluid painted Blurr’s valve.
“Frag, frag, frag,” Blurr heard himself chanting, as if from a distance, as his entire frame rattled, pleasure making him twitch and writhe in Ricochet’s grasp.
Ricochet chuckled darkly. “Thought that’s what I was doin’.” Self-satisfaction flooded his tone as he dragged his mouth down and bit the top edge of Blurr’s chestplate. “Got any more in ya?”
“As many as you think you can manage,” Blurr challenged while his sensory net tingled, and his valve fluttered around Ricochet’s spike, straining for more charge.
“Good.” Ricochet purred.
Blurr’s world turned upside down. Or something like it. Next thing he knew, he was tossed over Ricochet’s shoulder, lubricant and transfluid seeping out of his valve to paint his thighs. He bounced as Ricochet moved, carrying him with ease.
“What’re you doing?” Blurr demanded, his processor spinning.
“Left enough paint on yer walls, I think,” Ricochet said before Blurr’s world spun around him again, and Ricochet unceremoniously tossed him toward the berth.
He bounced for a moment before Ricochet was on him, flipping him onto his front and nudging between his thighs, spikehead grinding against his rim. Denta seized the back of Blurr’s neck, and he moaned, pressing his forehead into the berth, aft tilting up invitingly.
Ricochet slid back into him. Blurr fisted the berth covers, and as he was filled to the brim, his sensitized nodes tingled back toward overload.
“This doesn’t mean I like you,” Blurr gasped out as he dug his knees into the berth and pushed back into the cradle of Ricochet’s hips, driving his spike deeper.
Ricochet chuckled against the back of his neck. “Sure it doesn’t,” he said, and thrust harder.
Blurr groaned, sparks dancing in his visual feed. Thank Primus he didn’t have to open tomorrow.
It was going to be a long night.
It was starting to become a habit.
Jazz spread out his notes. It was easier, now that he knew Wreckers were the target. But he still didn’t have an answer.
Was it a group of mechs or an individual? Was it an Autobot or a Decepticon? What was the motive? Who was next?
He’d interviewed all the former Wreckers who would talk to him. No one had any fingers to point. Their enemies were either dead or not on planet. The few Decepticons Jazz might have suspected were squeaky clean with solid alibis and anyway, the means didn’t match their capabilities.
Jazz was certain the perpetrator was a special ops agent like himself. That was the only way they could get the drop on a Wrecker.
Unless it was another Wrecker. Someone they would have trusted. No, no. Jazz dismissed that line of thought immediately. Not all of these Wreckers served at the same time. Some of them hadn’t even known the others, save by reputation alone. Wreckers were a suspicious lot, like spies in that regard.
Besides, Wreckers tended to be brute force, not finesse, and Pyro’s death had been clean and precise. Classic execution. That right there had pointed fingers at a Spec Ops agent.
Jazz already knew it wasn’t one of his. He’d asked, and Prowl swore it wasn’t one of his either. He’d also gone on to swear he wasn’t the one behind the deaths.
Jazz had intended to ask. Was it suspicious Prowl answered before he asked? No, not really. Prowl wasn’t stupid. He knew mechs considered him the mastermind for a lot of things. Besides, what motive would there be? Sure Prowl hadn’t gotten along with the Wreckers much, but they were useful, and Prowl never discarded anything useful.
Jazz sighed and scrubbed his forehead. So far, he was doing a bang-up job of deciding who it wasn’t while his list of who it could be remained blank.
Frag it.
Click.
“Not going so well?”
Jazz looked up as Bluestreak slid into the table across from him, sliding a cube toward him. “How is it ya always show up when I need a miracle?”
Bluestreak snorted. “It just seems that way.” He tilted his head, optics skimming over the information on the datapads. “That looks like a mess. And I know a little something about messes. Any leads?”
“No.” Jazz grabbed the cube and sipped the mid-grade, wishing it were something stronger, but he needed his wits about him right now. “Whoever this is, they’re good.”
“Better than you?”
Jazz’s lips quirked into a sliding scale smile. “No one’s better’n me, Blue.” He half-flashed his visor in a wink.
Bluestreak chuckled and folded his arms against the edge of the table, leaning forward. His sensory panels twitched behind him, and Jazz’s gaze was drawn to them again, admiring their edges, their shine, wondering how they’d taste on his glossa.
Primus, he had it bad.
“Maybe I can help again.” Bluestreak touched one datapad with a finger and dragged it closer, peering at the contents. It was a summary of the causes of death, Jazz realized. Bluestreak didn’t blink at the gory details. Then again, why would he? Masterful sharpshooter that he was.
“I’ll take all the help I can get,” Jazz slid into a lazy recline against the back of the chair. “You’re not workin’ right?”
“I’m taking over for Riptide here in a bit. I just saw you over here looking lost and agitated, so I thought a drink might help,” Bluestreak said, his tone absent as though he was giving the information serious thought. “Wow. This maniac is thorough. There’s anger in these deaths, Jazz. This isn’t business. This is personal.”
Jazz nodded and sucked in a slow vent. “Shame.”
“Yeah. It is. It’s peacetime, we’re supposed to be safe.”
“Not what I meant.”
Bluestreak cycled his optics and looked up. “I knew what you meant,” he said, and his tone was quiet. “It’s not a good idea. It wasn’t the first time, and it’s still not now.”
Jazz hated that answer. It was a non-answer. It told him nothing. “Why?”
Bluestreak sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. “This is more than personal,” he said, tapping the datapad pointedly. “You asked Smokescreen about this? Because you need a psychological profile to narrow it down. I’m thinking this is a mech who felt betrayed. Abandoned maybe. This is an anger that’s been building for a long, long time.”
Jazz leaned forward, put his hand on the datapad, blocking the information. “Why?” he repeated.
“You don’t want to hear the answer.”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked.”
Bluestreak sighed and lifted his gaze to Jazz again. “If it didn’t mean anything, I would have said yes already. I’m not immune to flirting, Jazz, and I’m not blind either. I’ve noticed.”
Jazz shifted in the seat, feeling stripped open beneath Bluestreak’s optics. “And?”
“And I don’t think I’m what you want.” Bluestreak let go of the datapad and leaned back, taking the tasty hints of his field with him. “I don’t think you even know what you want, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want what I have. Or even if you did want it, you’re not ready for it. I don’t play, Jazz. Not like you do. If I take something, I keep it.”
Jazz worked his intake, his ventilations hitching, and he fought like the Pit to force the heat down into the depths of his belly where it belonged, rather than in his field and throughout his frame. “What if I want to be kept?”
“Think about whether or not you mean that, and what you’re offering.” Bluestreak stood, sliding out of the booth, and though his words were serious, his smile was gentle. “I mean it, Jazz. Think about it. Don’t just assume you’ve got it figured out and come to me because this is something new and exciting you want to try.”
Jazz licked his lips, his ventilations shallow. “What do ya want to do to me, Blue?”
The edge of a smile turned wicked. “I have a list.” Bluestreak rapped his knuckles on the counter. “See you later, Jazz. Good luck with the investigation.”
He left, and Jazz watched him go with a hunger gnawing deep in the pit of his tanks, a hunger the midgrade on the table in front of him wouldn’t sate.
Though Bluestreak had a point, and Jazz knew he did. He needed to see Smokescreen for a psychological profile, because if he could find some reason in the madness, then maybe Jazz could narrow down his suspect pool enough to make an actionable actual list.
So much to do, so little time.
Jazz gathered up his datapads, downed the drink Bluestreak had given him in one fell swoop, and swept out of the bar. But not before he looked over his shoulder to see Bluestreak watching him go with an equally hungry look.
Jazz shivered.
He had some serious thinking to do.
