[IDW] A Perfect Storm 04/16
Apr. 29th, 2019 08:43 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 Four
They technically didn’t share a berth. Ricochet was supposed to recharge on the couch and the berth was for Blurr alone.
Those were the agreed upon terms, in theory.
In practice, Blurr on-lined every morning with a horny Decepticon wrapped around him, mouthing at the back of his neck and caressing his panels.
It wasn’t a terrible way to online. It’s just that in the week since Ricochet had showed up to safeguard him, he hadn’t recharged once on the couch. Of course, if Blurr was better at resisting temptation, maybe he could manage to exile Ricochet to the couch.
Maybe.
A hot mouth sucked on the back of Blurr’s neck as a knee nudged between his thighs from behind, making room for a spike to rub against his aft. Blurr sighed and rocked back into the cradle of Ricochet’s hips.
“If you’re going to poke me with a spike, why don’t you put it to use?”
Ricochet chuckled darkly and shivers radiated through Blurr’s sensornet. “That’s what I like about you, Zippy. You’re always good to go.”
Fingers slid over Blurr’s hips, finding the hot nub of his anterior node and giving it a rub. The dull bloom of heat overrode Blurr’s annoyance with the nickname. He melted backward, tilting his hips to encourage Ricochet to frag him.
“Just shut up and make yourself useful,” Blurr snapped as Ricochet’s fingers pinched gently at his nub, sending a shock of pleasure through Blurr’s array. He went liquid with need, the heat of it pooling in his belly. His valve clenched, lubricant beading at the rim.
“Gladly,” Ricochet purred, and rolled over on top of Blurr, pinning him to the berth, his weight blanketing Blurr entirely.
Blurr got his knees beneath him just in time for Ricochet to plunge into him, bottoming out in one long, deep thrust, the head of his spike perfectly angled to grind against Blurr’s ceiling node. He jerked, loosing a small moan, valve quivering in response to the abrupt pleasure.
“You feel amazing,” Ricochet groaned as he licked and bit at the back of Blurr’s neck, like one might a piece of hard energon candy. He rocked his hips, less thrusts then they were deep, grinding pushes. “I could do this all day.”
Blurr fisted the berthcovers, pressing his forehead into the plush surface. “Well, you can’t. I have to open.”
Ricochet chuckled, the vibrations of it rattling in Blurr’s audials and sending a surge of charge down his backstrut. “Some other time then.” He pinched Blurr’s anterior node between thumb and forefinger, immediately soothing the sharp pain with a gentle rub.
Blurr moaned, ex-venting hot and wet against the berthcovers. His optics flickered as he dug his knees into the berth, pushing back against the pressure of Ricochet’s frame. His valve clenched and rippled, feeding charge into Ricochet’s spike, his rim swollen and his nodes sparking with building charge.
“Ya run so damn hot, I love it,” Ricochet growled as he thrust harder and faster, each forward push ending with a grind against Blurr’s ceiling node.
Blurr twisted his fingers in the berthcovers and pushed back, tilting to take Ricochet as deep as possible. The weight and heat of the former Con was unexpectedly arousing, and the slippery touch of Ricochet’s fingers on his nub made him jerk and clench.
Blurr groaned, vents coming in sharp gasps. He was so close already, charge leaping out from under his armor and lighting up the room with bursts of blue. Ricochet gripped his hip, fingers digging into a seam, the sharp tips pricking at Blurr’s cables.
“More,” Blurr demanded, though it came out more of a hiss, his head tipping back, putting his neck and shoulder into range of Ricochet’s mouth.
Denta closed around his bared components, pressure building against the sensitive components, a dull pain that burst into sharp relief. Blurr shuddered as it turned molten. He knew it was going to leave a mark, a dent, knew he’d probably seep a little energon.
Frag if that didn’t turn him on more.
He clawed at the berth, shoving back against Ricochet, and another sharp jab against his ceiling node sent Blurr sailing into overload, his valve convulsing around the thick. Ricochet shuddered, the rattle of his armor grinding against Blurr’s, and more static spilled out of his frame, joining the dancing curls of Blurr’s. Transfluid splashed over Blurr’s sensitive nodes in a hot wave, and he shivered, little surges of pleasure extending his overload.
“Mmm.” Ricochet licked the bite mark he’d left in the back of Blurr’s neck. “Best wake up call, if you ask me.”
Blurr wriggled beneath his weight, no longer appealing now that he was post-overload and overheating. “You’re blocking my vents,” he grumbled.
Ricochet laughed and rolled off him, sprawling across the other half of the berth with a self-satisfied burst of his field. “Ya have no respect for a good post-face snuggle.”
Blurr shifted onto his side to get comfortable, his vents fluttering open and greedily sucking in great draughts of air. He was a Racer, damn it. He needed to have good airflow when he was exerting.
“That’s because a cuddle for you is an excuse for another round. And I still have to shower before I go into work.” A satisfactory ache settled into Blurr’s valve. If he didn’t have to open, he’d roll over and slide back into recharge.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so effectively sated. It was nice having a readily available partner at his beck and call.
“Whatever you say, Zippy.”
Blurr sighed and let the nickname slide. Again. There had to be something about Ricochet that made him tolerable the more Blurr was exposed to him.
It had only been a week. Really, he ought to protest more.
“We could shower together. Save resources,” Ricochet suggested, and Blurr didn’t have to look to know he was leering.
The berth dipped. Ricochet slid back against Blurr from behind, his fingers flirting over Blurr’s exposed array. “What do you say?”
Blurr really needed to learn how to say no. Instead, he parted his thighs and canted his hips against Ricochet’s fingers.
“Just this once.”
~
Bluestreak was many things, but able to process thousands of bytes of data in a cycle of his optics was not of them. He was not Prowl. He was slower, more methodical, having to absorb the information at a gradual pace.
It was a weakness, one that prevented his admission to the Enforcer Academy, but served him well when it came to solving puzzles. He had more time to ruminate on clues and context, often drawing conclusions where no one else could.
“Look at this one as well,” Prowl said as he handed over a datapad.
Bluestreak accepted it and plugged into the port, downloading the contents and adding it to the processing program which was already absorbing the information he’d “borrowed” from Jazz’s datapads. Secretly, mind, as Jazz had no idea Bluestreak had taken it. He wasn’t supposed to know Bluestreak was assisting on this case.
No one was supposed to know.
“Why don’t you just officially assign me the case?” Bluestreak asked as he rapped his fingers, half his processor focused on perusing the new data, the other half focused on Prowl as Prowl more or less ignored him.
He swore that stack of paperwork on Prowl’s desk was only getting larger, rather than smaller, no matter how much Prowl worked. Ultra Magnus helped, but Rodimus was notorious for avoiding his datawork as long as possible. He was more of a hands-on Prime.
And word on the street was that he’s been very hands-on with the Decepticon Winglord.
“You retired,” Prowl said.
Bluestreak wouldn’t count it as a retirement. He’d retired from the Autobot army, yes, but civilian detective work was a whole different story. Prowl should have known that.
“And here I am.”
“Here you are,” Prowl agreed without lifting his glance or stilling his stylus.
Bluestreak rapped his fingers on the arm of the chair again. “Jazz could use the help,” he pointed out, thinking fondly of the smaller mech who’d looked both strained and exhausted as of late. Twitchy, too, Bluestreak would say.
He needed a firm hand. Bluestreak was ready to offer it, as soon as Jazz knew enough to ask for it.
“Exactly,” Prowl said.
“I meant directly,” Bluestreak said. He reached out with a foot, toeing one of the desk’s table legs.
Prowl’s left sensory panel twitched, which meant he was avoiding confrontation as best he could. “No.”
“Why not?”
Prowl’s stylus finally stilled. He looked up, creakingly slow. “You know why not.”
Bluestreak sighed and resisted the urge to roll his optics. “What happens between two consenting adults--”
“You distract him.”
“Oh, so now it’s my fault.”
“I’m removing a possible temptation. Nothing more, nothing less.” Prowl’s tone was as clipped as the brief flick of his sensory panels, left then right. “I need this case solved, Bluestreak. There was a time Jazz would have brought me a perpetrator’s head within a few cycles.”
Bluestreak did roll his optics this time. “That was when you didn’t have rules and oversight.”
“Precisely my point.” Prowl cycled a ventilation and pressed the bridge of his nose, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. “I have to do this within certain boundaries, and that’s stifling me, it’s stifling Jazz, so I can’t allow anything else to distract him.”
“Does he know you have such a low opinion of him?”
Both sensory panels twitched now, in synonymous succession, as Prowl’s field leaked a twinge of agitation. “Matters of the spark are never logical. Even I know that.”
Bluestreak swallowed what he wanted to say because it was cruel, and Prowl did not deserve such cruelty. Even if he was being an aft. It was just Prowl’s nature.
He changed the subject instead. “Whoever is doing this is escalating, you know,” he said, and tapped the datapad pointedly. “The first murder was a year ago. There’s now been two in the past month.”
“I know.” Prowl lowered his hand and picked up his stylus again, getting back to work. “Which is why it is imperative we find them and soon. I worry about what happens when they run out of Wreckers.”
“It won’t come to that.” Bluestreak disengaged from Prowl’s datapad and set it on the desk as he stood. “I’m going to figure this out. Jazz is, too.”
“I should hope so.” Prowl’s tone was even, but there was gratitude in the flickers of his field. Pride, too. “Go on. I don’t want you to be late for your shift with Blurr.”
Bluestreak rolled his optics. “Thanks, sire. Happy to be of service.” He shot off a playful salute and backed toward the door.
“I wouldn’t have a brat like you for a sparkling,” Prowl retorted, but his sensory panels betrayed him, flicking twice at the distal tips.
Bluestreak snorted. “You’d have been lucky to have me.” He poked the panel to open the door. “I’ll let you know what I come up with later.”
“I trust you will.”
~
Ricochet didn't know what was better, having a nice, reliable fragging partner in the form of one hot-aft former Racer, or the satisfaction that came from how huffy Blurr became in the aftermath, like he didn't want to admit how much he enjoyed getting fragged senseless on a daily basis. Both were equally satisfying.
He'd have to thank Jazz for asking for his favor. Who knew it would be such a good time?
"Do you have to stand so close to me?" Blurr snapped as he keyed in his access code to the security system and waited for it to acknowledge him.
"I'm yer bodyguard. It's my job to stay close," Ricochet said, and crowded even more against Blurr's back, ex-venting hot and wet against the Racer's nape, where his bite from earlier stood out in stark relief.
Everyone would know he'd been claimed. Ricochet grinned.
"Not that close!" Blurr jabbed an elbow backward, and Ricochet barely twisted out of the way in time.
Ricochet chuckled and gave him some venting space once again, though his fingers itched to trace all those lovely curves and streamlined angles. A long time past, Ricochet wouldn't have hoped of getting his hands on one of the Circuit's most famous Racers. And now, he'd been buried in said Racer's intake just this morning, their “quick” shower almost making Blurr late.
Oh, things had changed.
The panel beeped, and the door slid open, admitting them to the dim back corridor of New Maccadam’s. Blurr hustled around, flicking on lights, powering up the dispersal systems, checking to make sure everything had been restocked. Ricochet gave him his space -- he wasn't much fun to taunt when he was in business mode. Besides, Ricochet was a jerk, but not so much that he'd frag with a mech's honest living.
He'd tease from afar.
He took up perch at the counter and rapped his knuckles on the shiny surface. "Yo, bartender, is this the kind of slag service I can expect 'round here?"
"You know where everything is by now. Serve yourself," Blurr called from the narrow storage space just behind the back wall of the bar, where he kept his more expensive backstock.
Ricochet leaned over the counter, snagging a bottle of the fizzy Tarnian Sunrise. "Ya might regret givin' me that much free reign."
"I regret a lot of things."
Ricochet chuckled.
Blurr emerged from the back with a few bottles tucked under his arm. He slid them under the counter where Ricochet sat, including another bottle of the Tarnian Sunrise. When he noticed what Ricochet had grabbed, he scrunched his nose in a way that should not have been so cute.
"How can you drink that slag?"
Ricochet twisted off the cap. "Yer the one who stock's it."
"Yeah. For customers. Though I don't see why anyone drinks it."
"I like it."
"It's sweet."
Ricochet smirked, baring his denta. "That's why I like it."
Blurr snorted. "You have terrible taste." He turned around and flicked the switches to activate the sound system and the outside lights, announcing them open for business, before he pushed through the swinging door and headed toward the front.
Ricochet followed Blurr with his optics, turning to half-lean against the counter. "What's that say about you, then, since I frag you on the daily?"
"Means I have terrible taste, too," Blurr threw over his shoulder as he flicked the locks and twisted the sign on the door around.
Ricochet laughed and took a swig of the sweet, bubbly engex. It was deceptively light, but it packed a fierce punch. "To each his own," he said as he smacked his lips and wiped his hand across the back of his mouth. "Though that does make me curious."
Blurr started pulling chairs and stools off tables, scooting them back underneath. "About what?"
"You." Ricochet swiveled completely around, bracing his elbows on the counter and his back against it as he watched Blurr work. "How come ya haven't been snapped up yet?"
Blurr paused and gave him a level look. "Because I don't want to be," he said, but there was something in his tone that suggested it wasn't the entire truth. "I have playmates. That's enough. I'm too busy for anything else."
"Right." Ricochet drawled and took a long sip of the engex, savoring the sweet bubble of it on his glossa. "Carefree and unattached. That's all ya want from life."
"What about you?" Blurr got back to work as the sound system finally kicked in, playing some medium energy beat from Earth. "Alone by choice or because no one else will have you?"
Ricochet pointed at him. "I'm gonna let that insult slide."
Blurr smirked.
"As fer me, I got all I need already." He lifted his hands in a pseudo-shrug. "I got my brother, and he'll always be mine no matter what he and Blue end up doing, and that's enough. Besides, seems I'm somethin' of an acquired taste."
"I can't imagine why."
"Aft."
Blurr laughed, and for a moment, the quiet between them was companionable rather than tense and waiting to be snap. It was kind of nice, Ricochet ruminated, to banter with someone who could give as good as he took. Blurr was an aft as much as Ricochet was, though a different flavor.
Like called to lie, he supposed. You could forgive a lot when it came attached to such a fine piece of fraggable aft.
Blurr finished the table and came back behind the corner. He pulled out a few jars of metal chunks and a grinder to grate fresh shavings for the more complicated drinks. Ricochet turned back toward him.
"So does that mean it's my turn to ask a question?" Blurr asked.
"You just did."
"You know what I mean."
Ricochet rolled his shoulders. "Sure. Why not? It feels like a good hour for sharin'."
Blurr dumped a few misshapen cubes of cobalt into the grinder and started to turn the crank. "Why'd you take this job? Protecting someone like me, I mean. I can't imagine you have any love for, uh--"
"An Autobot sparked and worshiped into wealth?" Ricochet finished for him. He leaned against the counter, teasing the mouth of the Tarnian bottle against his lips. "Yeah, if this was pre-war, I'd have told Jazz to go frag himself."
"But it's different now?"
"The whole planet's different now." Ricochet's gaze wandered, to the colorful bottles on display behind Blurr. "Jazz asked, which meant you meant somethin' to him, and that was enough for me." He paused and curved his lips. "That and the blowjob might have had something to do with it."
Blurr snorted and rolled his optics. "Why am I not surprised?"
"What about you?"
"Me?"
Ricochet jerked his head in a nod. "You were pretty against havin' backup. What changed yer mind?"
"I'm still against it." Blurr dumped the ground cobalt back into the jar, wiped out the grinder, and refilled it with coarse magnesium. "But I'm not an idiot. If someone out there is going to try and kill me, a little back up can't hurt." He paused and smirked, his optics glinting with humor. "That and the readily available berth partner is a decent bonus."
Ricochet sat back a little, toying with the bottle of engex. "So you do like me."
"Like is a strong word."
"Not much distance between lust and like. Watch. You'll fall 'n love with me soon enough."
Blurr laughed, and it was a genuine laugh, not one of his sarcastic ones. It was a cute laugh, where his optics sparkled and his vents fluttered. "I'm sure."
Ricochet rubbed the engex between his palms, watching the fancy label sparkle in the overhead lights. "All right. My turn." He tilted his head, letting his field lightly probe at Blurr's. "Why the Autobots?"
"Seriously?"
"It's a pertinent question."
"Kind of a serious one."
"You don't wanna answer?"
Blurr twisted his jaw and dumped the magnesium shavings into a jar. He rinsed out the grinder and set it aside, taking out a meshcloth to wipe up where he had been working. "I didn't want to pick either."
"That wasn't an option for long."
"Tell me about it." Blurr stared at the counter, his forehead furrowing, a moment of genuine seriousness flicking into his tone. "I was almost a Decepticon. They tried to recruit me. If they hadn't sent Starscream, they might have succeeded."
"Aww. Star's not so bad."
Blurr lifted his orbital ridges. "You sound like you know from personal experience."
Ricochet took another long, savoring sip of the Tarnian Sunrise. He smacked his lips. "I'm a very desirable mech, Blurr. Now you were saying?"
Blurr gave him a long, even look. Like he was trying to decide if Ricochet was lying or not. He'd never know. "Starscream tried to recruit me. I said no. Something about it didn't sit right with me." He paused and a bit of a wry grin curved his lips. "I had the feeling the Decepticons wouldn't much like a mech like me anyway."
"Well, you're not wrong."
Blurr snorted and idly scrubbed at an already clean counter. "Look, my life was good before the war. If you're thinking I'm going to give you some deep, meaningful reason behind which side I chose, you're not going to find it. I just picked the side that I thought would help me survive."
"Survival," Ricochet echoed, his tone flat. "So that's what you're goin' with."
"Yeah."
"Then how does that jive with joining the Wreckers? Don't they have somethin' like a ten percent survival rate?"
Blurr chuckled, and the light in his optics dimmed a little. "I might have wanted to prove how good I was.
Ricochet leaned back a little, bracing his foot on the bar running along the underside of the counter. "I don't buy that."
"I'm not selling it. That's the way it is."
"I think there's more to it."
Blurr turned and tossed the meshcloth into the laundry. He braced his arms on the edge of the counter. "What about you? What story are you going to sell me?"
"The truth." Ricochet leaned back forward, so they were close enough he could smell Blurr's expensive wax and polish. "I hated authority. I hated the Prime. I especially hated my slagger of a sire. I wanted nothing to do with anything that carried the same symbol as him. I wanted to see the entire institution burn to the ground, and the Decepticons offered that in spades."
Blurr sucked his lower lip into his mouth before releasing it. "That's fair," he said. "It didn't bother you Jazz chose otherwise?"
"He always was Daddy's favorite."
It had bothered him. It bothered him immensely. Ricochet had done his best to keep his twin alive during the war. Would've been easier if Jazz hadn't insisted on sneaking into the most dangerous Decepticon bases and finding himself behind enemy lines, but then, that was Jazz. He wasn't living if he wasn't risking his spark in some way.
It was something Ricochet couldn't fix. He'd never wear the Autobot brand, and Jazz didn't want to serve under Megatron.
It was a relief for both of them when neither side truly won.
"Did you ever have to face him on the battlefield?"
Ricochet paused, thinking of a moment, one of a few in stark relief through the centuries of war. When he'd been charged with sneaking into a base and assassinating the base commander. It had been a key position, one that was blocking up their supply routes, and his unit had been assigned the destruction of the base.
He'd climbed out of a disposal port and come face to face with his twin, and the blaster Jazz had pointed in the middle of his visor.
"Don't make me do it," Jazz had said.
"Yer not gonna," Ricochet had retorted. It would only take a fraction of a second for him to draw his own blaster and fire. He already knew he wouldn't.
He was less sure about Jazz. For all that Ricochet was determined to be the rough one, Jazz was far, far more ruthless.
"Once," Ricochet said, blinking back into the present. He gave Blurr a wry grin. "Turns out he loves me just a smidge more than he loves the Autobots."
"I'll bet he does," Blurr said, his tone impossible to read. He shifted, like he planned to say something else, but the front doors opened just then, admitting a trio of construction mechs, their feet tracking in mess while their loud voices filled the otherwise quiet bar.
"Guess we'll have to continue this later," Blurr said, and shifted away from Ricochet, flashing a welcoming smile on his face. "Welcome to New Maccadam’s, gentlemechs. What can I get for you?"
Ricochet grinned and lifted the Tarnian Sunrise back to his lips, the bubbly sweetness spilling over his glossa.
A little bit of fragging, a little bit of conversation, and a little bit of engex.
He couldn't imagine a better morning.
***
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.
They technically didn’t share a berth. Ricochet was supposed to recharge on the couch and the berth was for Blurr alone.
Those were the agreed upon terms, in theory.
In practice, Blurr on-lined every morning with a horny Decepticon wrapped around him, mouthing at the back of his neck and caressing his panels.
It wasn’t a terrible way to online. It’s just that in the week since Ricochet had showed up to safeguard him, he hadn’t recharged once on the couch. Of course, if Blurr was better at resisting temptation, maybe he could manage to exile Ricochet to the couch.
Maybe.
A hot mouth sucked on the back of Blurr’s neck as a knee nudged between his thighs from behind, making room for a spike to rub against his aft. Blurr sighed and rocked back into the cradle of Ricochet’s hips.
“If you’re going to poke me with a spike, why don’t you put it to use?”
Ricochet chuckled darkly and shivers radiated through Blurr’s sensornet. “That’s what I like about you, Zippy. You’re always good to go.”
Fingers slid over Blurr’s hips, finding the hot nub of his anterior node and giving it a rub. The dull bloom of heat overrode Blurr’s annoyance with the nickname. He melted backward, tilting his hips to encourage Ricochet to frag him.
“Just shut up and make yourself useful,” Blurr snapped as Ricochet’s fingers pinched gently at his nub, sending a shock of pleasure through Blurr’s array. He went liquid with need, the heat of it pooling in his belly. His valve clenched, lubricant beading at the rim.
“Gladly,” Ricochet purred, and rolled over on top of Blurr, pinning him to the berth, his weight blanketing Blurr entirely.
Blurr got his knees beneath him just in time for Ricochet to plunge into him, bottoming out in one long, deep thrust, the head of his spike perfectly angled to grind against Blurr’s ceiling node. He jerked, loosing a small moan, valve quivering in response to the abrupt pleasure.
“You feel amazing,” Ricochet groaned as he licked and bit at the back of Blurr’s neck, like one might a piece of hard energon candy. He rocked his hips, less thrusts then they were deep, grinding pushes. “I could do this all day.”
Blurr fisted the berthcovers, pressing his forehead into the plush surface. “Well, you can’t. I have to open.”
Ricochet chuckled, the vibrations of it rattling in Blurr’s audials and sending a surge of charge down his backstrut. “Some other time then.” He pinched Blurr’s anterior node between thumb and forefinger, immediately soothing the sharp pain with a gentle rub.
Blurr moaned, ex-venting hot and wet against the berthcovers. His optics flickered as he dug his knees into the berth, pushing back against the pressure of Ricochet’s frame. His valve clenched and rippled, feeding charge into Ricochet’s spike, his rim swollen and his nodes sparking with building charge.
“Ya run so damn hot, I love it,” Ricochet growled as he thrust harder and faster, each forward push ending with a grind against Blurr’s ceiling node.
Blurr twisted his fingers in the berthcovers and pushed back, tilting to take Ricochet as deep as possible. The weight and heat of the former Con was unexpectedly arousing, and the slippery touch of Ricochet’s fingers on his nub made him jerk and clench.
Blurr groaned, vents coming in sharp gasps. He was so close already, charge leaping out from under his armor and lighting up the room with bursts of blue. Ricochet gripped his hip, fingers digging into a seam, the sharp tips pricking at Blurr’s cables.
“More,” Blurr demanded, though it came out more of a hiss, his head tipping back, putting his neck and shoulder into range of Ricochet’s mouth.
Denta closed around his bared components, pressure building against the sensitive components, a dull pain that burst into sharp relief. Blurr shuddered as it turned molten. He knew it was going to leave a mark, a dent, knew he’d probably seep a little energon.
Frag if that didn’t turn him on more.
He clawed at the berth, shoving back against Ricochet, and another sharp jab against his ceiling node sent Blurr sailing into overload, his valve convulsing around the thick. Ricochet shuddered, the rattle of his armor grinding against Blurr’s, and more static spilled out of his frame, joining the dancing curls of Blurr’s. Transfluid splashed over Blurr’s sensitive nodes in a hot wave, and he shivered, little surges of pleasure extending his overload.
“Mmm.” Ricochet licked the bite mark he’d left in the back of Blurr’s neck. “Best wake up call, if you ask me.”
Blurr wriggled beneath his weight, no longer appealing now that he was post-overload and overheating. “You’re blocking my vents,” he grumbled.
Ricochet laughed and rolled off him, sprawling across the other half of the berth with a self-satisfied burst of his field. “Ya have no respect for a good post-face snuggle.”
Blurr shifted onto his side to get comfortable, his vents fluttering open and greedily sucking in great draughts of air. He was a Racer, damn it. He needed to have good airflow when he was exerting.
“That’s because a cuddle for you is an excuse for another round. And I still have to shower before I go into work.” A satisfactory ache settled into Blurr’s valve. If he didn’t have to open, he’d roll over and slide back into recharge.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so effectively sated. It was nice having a readily available partner at his beck and call.
“Whatever you say, Zippy.”
Blurr sighed and let the nickname slide. Again. There had to be something about Ricochet that made him tolerable the more Blurr was exposed to him.
It had only been a week. Really, he ought to protest more.
“We could shower together. Save resources,” Ricochet suggested, and Blurr didn’t have to look to know he was leering.
The berth dipped. Ricochet slid back against Blurr from behind, his fingers flirting over Blurr’s exposed array. “What do you say?”
Blurr really needed to learn how to say no. Instead, he parted his thighs and canted his hips against Ricochet’s fingers.
“Just this once.”
Bluestreak was many things, but able to process thousands of bytes of data in a cycle of his optics was not of them. He was not Prowl. He was slower, more methodical, having to absorb the information at a gradual pace.
It was a weakness, one that prevented his admission to the Enforcer Academy, but served him well when it came to solving puzzles. He had more time to ruminate on clues and context, often drawing conclusions where no one else could.
“Look at this one as well,” Prowl said as he handed over a datapad.
Bluestreak accepted it and plugged into the port, downloading the contents and adding it to the processing program which was already absorbing the information he’d “borrowed” from Jazz’s datapads. Secretly, mind, as Jazz had no idea Bluestreak had taken it. He wasn’t supposed to know Bluestreak was assisting on this case.
No one was supposed to know.
“Why don’t you just officially assign me the case?” Bluestreak asked as he rapped his fingers, half his processor focused on perusing the new data, the other half focused on Prowl as Prowl more or less ignored him.
He swore that stack of paperwork on Prowl’s desk was only getting larger, rather than smaller, no matter how much Prowl worked. Ultra Magnus helped, but Rodimus was notorious for avoiding his datawork as long as possible. He was more of a hands-on Prime.
And word on the street was that he’s been very hands-on with the Decepticon Winglord.
“You retired,” Prowl said.
Bluestreak wouldn’t count it as a retirement. He’d retired from the Autobot army, yes, but civilian detective work was a whole different story. Prowl should have known that.
“And here I am.”
“Here you are,” Prowl agreed without lifting his glance or stilling his stylus.
Bluestreak rapped his fingers on the arm of the chair again. “Jazz could use the help,” he pointed out, thinking fondly of the smaller mech who’d looked both strained and exhausted as of late. Twitchy, too, Bluestreak would say.
He needed a firm hand. Bluestreak was ready to offer it, as soon as Jazz knew enough to ask for it.
“Exactly,” Prowl said.
“I meant directly,” Bluestreak said. He reached out with a foot, toeing one of the desk’s table legs.
Prowl’s left sensory panel twitched, which meant he was avoiding confrontation as best he could. “No.”
“Why not?”
Prowl’s stylus finally stilled. He looked up, creakingly slow. “You know why not.”
Bluestreak sighed and resisted the urge to roll his optics. “What happens between two consenting adults--”
“You distract him.”
“Oh, so now it’s my fault.”
“I’m removing a possible temptation. Nothing more, nothing less.” Prowl’s tone was as clipped as the brief flick of his sensory panels, left then right. “I need this case solved, Bluestreak. There was a time Jazz would have brought me a perpetrator’s head within a few cycles.”
Bluestreak did roll his optics this time. “That was when you didn’t have rules and oversight.”
“Precisely my point.” Prowl cycled a ventilation and pressed the bridge of his nose, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. “I have to do this within certain boundaries, and that’s stifling me, it’s stifling Jazz, so I can’t allow anything else to distract him.”
“Does he know you have such a low opinion of him?”
Both sensory panels twitched now, in synonymous succession, as Prowl’s field leaked a twinge of agitation. “Matters of the spark are never logical. Even I know that.”
Bluestreak swallowed what he wanted to say because it was cruel, and Prowl did not deserve such cruelty. Even if he was being an aft. It was just Prowl’s nature.
He changed the subject instead. “Whoever is doing this is escalating, you know,” he said, and tapped the datapad pointedly. “The first murder was a year ago. There’s now been two in the past month.”
“I know.” Prowl lowered his hand and picked up his stylus again, getting back to work. “Which is why it is imperative we find them and soon. I worry about what happens when they run out of Wreckers.”
“It won’t come to that.” Bluestreak disengaged from Prowl’s datapad and set it on the desk as he stood. “I’m going to figure this out. Jazz is, too.”
“I should hope so.” Prowl’s tone was even, but there was gratitude in the flickers of his field. Pride, too. “Go on. I don’t want you to be late for your shift with Blurr.”
Bluestreak rolled his optics. “Thanks, sire. Happy to be of service.” He shot off a playful salute and backed toward the door.
“I wouldn’t have a brat like you for a sparkling,” Prowl retorted, but his sensory panels betrayed him, flicking twice at the distal tips.
Bluestreak snorted. “You’d have been lucky to have me.” He poked the panel to open the door. “I’ll let you know what I come up with later.”
“I trust you will.”
Ricochet didn't know what was better, having a nice, reliable fragging partner in the form of one hot-aft former Racer, or the satisfaction that came from how huffy Blurr became in the aftermath, like he didn't want to admit how much he enjoyed getting fragged senseless on a daily basis. Both were equally satisfying.
He'd have to thank Jazz for asking for his favor. Who knew it would be such a good time?
"Do you have to stand so close to me?" Blurr snapped as he keyed in his access code to the security system and waited for it to acknowledge him.
"I'm yer bodyguard. It's my job to stay close," Ricochet said, and crowded even more against Blurr's back, ex-venting hot and wet against the Racer's nape, where his bite from earlier stood out in stark relief.
Everyone would know he'd been claimed. Ricochet grinned.
"Not that close!" Blurr jabbed an elbow backward, and Ricochet barely twisted out of the way in time.
Ricochet chuckled and gave him some venting space once again, though his fingers itched to trace all those lovely curves and streamlined angles. A long time past, Ricochet wouldn't have hoped of getting his hands on one of the Circuit's most famous Racers. And now, he'd been buried in said Racer's intake just this morning, their “quick” shower almost making Blurr late.
Oh, things had changed.
The panel beeped, and the door slid open, admitting them to the dim back corridor of New Maccadam’s. Blurr hustled around, flicking on lights, powering up the dispersal systems, checking to make sure everything had been restocked. Ricochet gave him his space -- he wasn't much fun to taunt when he was in business mode. Besides, Ricochet was a jerk, but not so much that he'd frag with a mech's honest living.
He'd tease from afar.
He took up perch at the counter and rapped his knuckles on the shiny surface. "Yo, bartender, is this the kind of slag service I can expect 'round here?"
"You know where everything is by now. Serve yourself," Blurr called from the narrow storage space just behind the back wall of the bar, where he kept his more expensive backstock.
Ricochet leaned over the counter, snagging a bottle of the fizzy Tarnian Sunrise. "Ya might regret givin' me that much free reign."
"I regret a lot of things."
Ricochet chuckled.
Blurr emerged from the back with a few bottles tucked under his arm. He slid them under the counter where Ricochet sat, including another bottle of the Tarnian Sunrise. When he noticed what Ricochet had grabbed, he scrunched his nose in a way that should not have been so cute.
"How can you drink that slag?"
Ricochet twisted off the cap. "Yer the one who stock's it."
"Yeah. For customers. Though I don't see why anyone drinks it."
"I like it."
"It's sweet."
Ricochet smirked, baring his denta. "That's why I like it."
Blurr snorted. "You have terrible taste." He turned around and flicked the switches to activate the sound system and the outside lights, announcing them open for business, before he pushed through the swinging door and headed toward the front.
Ricochet followed Blurr with his optics, turning to half-lean against the counter. "What's that say about you, then, since I frag you on the daily?"
"Means I have terrible taste, too," Blurr threw over his shoulder as he flicked the locks and twisted the sign on the door around.
Ricochet laughed and took a swig of the sweet, bubbly engex. It was deceptively light, but it packed a fierce punch. "To each his own," he said as he smacked his lips and wiped his hand across the back of his mouth. "Though that does make me curious."
Blurr started pulling chairs and stools off tables, scooting them back underneath. "About what?"
"You." Ricochet swiveled completely around, bracing his elbows on the counter and his back against it as he watched Blurr work. "How come ya haven't been snapped up yet?"
Blurr paused and gave him a level look. "Because I don't want to be," he said, but there was something in his tone that suggested it wasn't the entire truth. "I have playmates. That's enough. I'm too busy for anything else."
"Right." Ricochet drawled and took a long sip of the engex, savoring the sweet bubble of it on his glossa. "Carefree and unattached. That's all ya want from life."
"What about you?" Blurr got back to work as the sound system finally kicked in, playing some medium energy beat from Earth. "Alone by choice or because no one else will have you?"
Ricochet pointed at him. "I'm gonna let that insult slide."
Blurr smirked.
"As fer me, I got all I need already." He lifted his hands in a pseudo-shrug. "I got my brother, and he'll always be mine no matter what he and Blue end up doing, and that's enough. Besides, seems I'm somethin' of an acquired taste."
"I can't imagine why."
"Aft."
Blurr laughed, and for a moment, the quiet between them was companionable rather than tense and waiting to be snap. It was kind of nice, Ricochet ruminated, to banter with someone who could give as good as he took. Blurr was an aft as much as Ricochet was, though a different flavor.
Like called to lie, he supposed. You could forgive a lot when it came attached to such a fine piece of fraggable aft.
Blurr finished the table and came back behind the corner. He pulled out a few jars of metal chunks and a grinder to grate fresh shavings for the more complicated drinks. Ricochet turned back toward him.
"So does that mean it's my turn to ask a question?" Blurr asked.
"You just did."
"You know what I mean."
Ricochet rolled his shoulders. "Sure. Why not? It feels like a good hour for sharin'."
Blurr dumped a few misshapen cubes of cobalt into the grinder and started to turn the crank. "Why'd you take this job? Protecting someone like me, I mean. I can't imagine you have any love for, uh--"
"An Autobot sparked and worshiped into wealth?" Ricochet finished for him. He leaned against the counter, teasing the mouth of the Tarnian bottle against his lips. "Yeah, if this was pre-war, I'd have told Jazz to go frag himself."
"But it's different now?"
"The whole planet's different now." Ricochet's gaze wandered, to the colorful bottles on display behind Blurr. "Jazz asked, which meant you meant somethin' to him, and that was enough for me." He paused and curved his lips. "That and the blowjob might have had something to do with it."
Blurr snorted and rolled his optics. "Why am I not surprised?"
"What about you?"
"Me?"
Ricochet jerked his head in a nod. "You were pretty against havin' backup. What changed yer mind?"
"I'm still against it." Blurr dumped the ground cobalt back into the jar, wiped out the grinder, and refilled it with coarse magnesium. "But I'm not an idiot. If someone out there is going to try and kill me, a little back up can't hurt." He paused and smirked, his optics glinting with humor. "That and the readily available berth partner is a decent bonus."
Ricochet sat back a little, toying with the bottle of engex. "So you do like me."
"Like is a strong word."
"Not much distance between lust and like. Watch. You'll fall 'n love with me soon enough."
Blurr laughed, and it was a genuine laugh, not one of his sarcastic ones. It was a cute laugh, where his optics sparkled and his vents fluttered. "I'm sure."
Ricochet rubbed the engex between his palms, watching the fancy label sparkle in the overhead lights. "All right. My turn." He tilted his head, letting his field lightly probe at Blurr's. "Why the Autobots?"
"Seriously?"
"It's a pertinent question."
"Kind of a serious one."
"You don't wanna answer?"
Blurr twisted his jaw and dumped the magnesium shavings into a jar. He rinsed out the grinder and set it aside, taking out a meshcloth to wipe up where he had been working. "I didn't want to pick either."
"That wasn't an option for long."
"Tell me about it." Blurr stared at the counter, his forehead furrowing, a moment of genuine seriousness flicking into his tone. "I was almost a Decepticon. They tried to recruit me. If they hadn't sent Starscream, they might have succeeded."
"Aww. Star's not so bad."
Blurr lifted his orbital ridges. "You sound like you know from personal experience."
Ricochet took another long, savoring sip of the Tarnian Sunrise. He smacked his lips. "I'm a very desirable mech, Blurr. Now you were saying?"
Blurr gave him a long, even look. Like he was trying to decide if Ricochet was lying or not. He'd never know. "Starscream tried to recruit me. I said no. Something about it didn't sit right with me." He paused and a bit of a wry grin curved his lips. "I had the feeling the Decepticons wouldn't much like a mech like me anyway."
"Well, you're not wrong."
Blurr snorted and idly scrubbed at an already clean counter. "Look, my life was good before the war. If you're thinking I'm going to give you some deep, meaningful reason behind which side I chose, you're not going to find it. I just picked the side that I thought would help me survive."
"Survival," Ricochet echoed, his tone flat. "So that's what you're goin' with."
"Yeah."
"Then how does that jive with joining the Wreckers? Don't they have somethin' like a ten percent survival rate?"
Blurr chuckled, and the light in his optics dimmed a little. "I might have wanted to prove how good I was.
Ricochet leaned back a little, bracing his foot on the bar running along the underside of the counter. "I don't buy that."
"I'm not selling it. That's the way it is."
"I think there's more to it."
Blurr turned and tossed the meshcloth into the laundry. He braced his arms on the edge of the counter. "What about you? What story are you going to sell me?"
"The truth." Ricochet leaned back forward, so they were close enough he could smell Blurr's expensive wax and polish. "I hated authority. I hated the Prime. I especially hated my slagger of a sire. I wanted nothing to do with anything that carried the same symbol as him. I wanted to see the entire institution burn to the ground, and the Decepticons offered that in spades."
Blurr sucked his lower lip into his mouth before releasing it. "That's fair," he said. "It didn't bother you Jazz chose otherwise?"
"He always was Daddy's favorite."
It had bothered him. It bothered him immensely. Ricochet had done his best to keep his twin alive during the war. Would've been easier if Jazz hadn't insisted on sneaking into the most dangerous Decepticon bases and finding himself behind enemy lines, but then, that was Jazz. He wasn't living if he wasn't risking his spark in some way.
It was something Ricochet couldn't fix. He'd never wear the Autobot brand, and Jazz didn't want to serve under Megatron.
It was a relief for both of them when neither side truly won.
"Did you ever have to face him on the battlefield?"
Ricochet paused, thinking of a moment, one of a few in stark relief through the centuries of war. When he'd been charged with sneaking into a base and assassinating the base commander. It had been a key position, one that was blocking up their supply routes, and his unit had been assigned the destruction of the base.
He'd climbed out of a disposal port and come face to face with his twin, and the blaster Jazz had pointed in the middle of his visor.
"Don't make me do it," Jazz had said.
"Yer not gonna," Ricochet had retorted. It would only take a fraction of a second for him to draw his own blaster and fire. He already knew he wouldn't.
He was less sure about Jazz. For all that Ricochet was determined to be the rough one, Jazz was far, far more ruthless.
"Once," Ricochet said, blinking back into the present. He gave Blurr a wry grin. "Turns out he loves me just a smidge more than he loves the Autobots."
"I'll bet he does," Blurr said, his tone impossible to read. He shifted, like he planned to say something else, but the front doors opened just then, admitting a trio of construction mechs, their feet tracking in mess while their loud voices filled the otherwise quiet bar.
"Guess we'll have to continue this later," Blurr said, and shifted away from Ricochet, flashing a welcoming smile on his face. "Welcome to New Maccadam’s, gentlemechs. What can I get for you?"
Ricochet grinned and lifted the Tarnian Sunrise back to his lips, the bubbly sweetness spilling over his glossa.
A little bit of fragging, a little bit of conversation, and a little bit of engex.
He couldn't imagine a better morning.
