[IDW] A Perfect Storm 05/16
May. 6th, 2019 06:16 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 Five
Nine days.
Hardly a blip in the lifespan of a Cybertronian, but oh, it was nine days Ricochet was never going to forget. He’d forgotten how much fun semi-hate sex was. And no one had ever told him that Racers could go and go and go.
Blurr was ever so much fun.
Not that he didn’t take his job seriously, because he did. Once Blurr was a puddle of sated blue metal in his berth, Ricochet slipped out and patrolled. He checked the windows and doors. He fiddled with the security system to make it more secure -- honestly, Blurr was lucky no thief had broken in on him already, his security was sparkling-play.
Ricochet had thought this was a pity gig. That Jazz knew he was out of sorts without any real work to be had, so he’d offered this task out of a sense of brotherly fondness. Ricochet didn’t think there was any real threat.
Then this morning, another Wrecker turned up dead. Executed actually, a triple-tap to Rossum’s Trinity to make sure there was no saving him. Nasty business, assassinations were. Ricochet was glad to be done with them. He much preferred the face to face destruction of his foes.
After that, Blurr went to work this morning, and for the first time, didn’t complain about Ricochet following him. He supposed the seriousness of the situation finally got through to the bartender.
The dead Wrecker had refused any type of guard. Perhaps he’d been rethinking his refusal as he looked death in the face.
Ricochet snorted. People could be so stubborn over the most stupid things.
He took position at the bar this time, tucked in a corner by the wall, rather than in a booth. Those, Blurr had told him, were reserved for paying, return customers. Not useless layabouts who liked to ogle the bartender’s aft.
That suited Ricochet just fine. He had a better view from here, and if Blurr didn’t snap to it fast enough, he could reach over the bar and grab whatever engex was within reach.
Win, win.
It was a busy night. Blurr ran around so much Ricochet didn’t have time to flirt with him, grope him, or catch much of an ogle. He had to entertain himself with engex, his gamepad, and occasionally catching conversation with Bluestreak.
He could see why Jazz carried such a torch for the mech honestly. There was something disarmingly charming about Bluestreak, though it took one to know one, and Ricochet could see the darkness behind his smile.
It helped that he had a nice aft, and Ricochet could make good use of those sensory panels. Too bad they would never be compatible in the berth.
“Are ya oglin’ the bartender?”
Ricochet grinned as the stool beside him rattled, and his brother climbed up into it, his field a barely contained chaotic frenzy behind his placid smile.
“Course I am. That’s what they’re here for, right?” Ricochet half-leaned against the counter, scanning his twin from top to bottom.
Primus, this case was running him ragged, wasn’t it? He didn’t know the last time he’d felt this much of a storm in Jazz’s field. His armor was taut to his frame, and the light in his visor was pale. Must’ve struck out with Bluestreak again, on top of it.
“Ya look terrible,” Ricochet said.
Jazz snorted and lead his head on the counter, though turned to face Ricochet. “That obvious?”
“Only ta me, probably. I know ya like I know my own spark.” He nudged his engex toward Jazz. “Want some? It’s free.”
“I don’t drink that cheap slag. I got better taste than that.” Jazz sighed a ventilation. “How’re you and Blurr gettin’ on, by the way?”
Ricochet grinned and took a long drag of his engex. “He’s a good frag.”
“Figures.” Jazz’s lower lip jutted out in a pout. “Better’n me?”
“No one’s better’n you, bro.” Ricochet sucked on the edge of the cube and hooked his foot around a rung on Jazz’s stool, tugging him within reach. “He’s not the reason ya came here though.”
Jazz’s visor flickered. “Ugh. I hate how ya know me so well.” He pushed himself upright, swiveling in the chair to face Ricochet, their knees knocking together. “I need you.”
“What about Blurr?”
“Blue’s here. He’ll be fine.”
Ricochet fiddled with his cube before he tipped it back, draining it. He set it upside-down on the counter. “Where?”
Jazz visibly perked, and something like relief sank into his field, putting a ripple in already turbulent waters. “Storage room. Blurr’s done his restocking for the week. Shouldn’t be anything anyone needs in it right now.”
“Not that ya care if ya get an audience,” Ricochet said as he slid from the stool, resting both of his hands on Jazz’s thighs, extending his talons only to sink them into Jazz’s armor. The screech of claw on plating was buried in the ambient noise of the bar. “Right?”
Jazz’s visor turned liquid with lust. “Yeah.” He licked his lips, thighs squirming open under the weight of Ricochet’s hands. “Though Blurr might be a little angry if we do it here.”
Ricochet leaned in, nuzzling into his brother’s throat, where the faintest imprints of his bites from earlier this week lingered. “Is it Blurr yer worried ‘bout, or Bluestreak?” He slid upward, until his thumbs found Jazz’s valve cover, and he pressed firmly against it, in a slow circle.
Jazz sucked in a vent. A low whine built in his intake. “Don’t,” he murmured, and Ricochet knew he wasn’t talking about the touching.
“You’re such a soft spark.” Ricochet sucked a cable between his denta and bit down, making Jazz jerk against him. “Thinkin’ me not talkin’ about it means it don’t exist. I got your number, bro. You’re gonna have to face it sooner or later.”
Hips rocked against his fingers in minute motions, making the stool creak. Jazz’s vents were audibly labored, and his field clung to Ricochet’s with tacky, desperate want.
“He said no.”
Ricochet lifted his head and grabbed Jazz’s chin, forcing their visors to meet as he pressed his forehead to Jazz’s. “That’s not what he said.”
“Not now,” Jazz said, but his visor fluttered, and his vents grew even more rapid.
“This isn’t over.” He flicked Jazz’s panel with his finger, making his brother startle. “Now show me the storage room.”
Jazz’s engine revved.
They slipped off the stools -- and a cursory glance found more than a few faces turned their way, they’d earned some attention. Ricochet bore his denta at them, and said faces quickly returned to their conversations.
Mine.
Ricochet let Jazz play, gave him up from time to time, but when it came down to it, Jazz was his first and always.
The storage room was small and cramped, with crates and boxes stacked together, all neatly labeled. There was a narrow walkway in the middle, and a single light flickered above them. The door clicked shut behind them -- opened by a code Jazz either owned or hacked.
Ricochet looked around, whistling. “Wow. Someone’s a little compulsive, aren’t they?”
“Weekdays are borin’.”
Ricochet snorted and grabbed what he figured was the biggest crate and hauled it into the center. He sat down on it and looked up at his twin, whose visor had turned bright and needy. He crooked a finger.
“Come.”
It only took a step or two for him to get into reach, and Ricochet struck, grabbing the underside of his bumper and hauling him in closer. Jazz yelped and tumbled down against him, nearly knocking down another crate as he flailed.
“So ungraceful,” Ricochet mocked.
“Ya didn’t give me any warning!”
“I don’t have to.” Ricochet pulled him down into a biting kiss, hard enough to leave his lower lip bruised.
Jazz moaned against his mouth, his field rising and crashing against Ricochet’s with a desperation he didn’t often show. He really needed this.
Ricochet grinned and spun his brother around, tugging Jazz into his lap, but legs splayed wide over his thighs. They were currently facing the door, which meant if anyone opened it, they’d get an opticful.
Perfect.
“Open,” Ricochet demanded as he snaked an arm around his brother’s waist, his palm cupping the entirety of Jazz’s array. He spread his knees, forcing Jazz’s legs even wider, thanking Primus and Unicron his brother was so flexible.
Jazz’s vents wheezed. He tipped back against Ricochet’s chassis, and his panel sprung open, lubricant seeping out of his valve. Ricochet immediately plunged two fingers inside, pushing deep.
“Good,” he purred. “But not the one I wanted.” He curved his other hand around, wrapping his fingers around Jazz’s intake. “Open up.”
A low whine rose in Jazz’s intake, his field molten. He went liquid in Ricochet’s arms, complete submission, and his aft panel snicked aside in offering.
“Good boy,” Ricochet murmured and bit at the side of Jazz’s intake as he took his lubricant coated fingers and plunged them into Jazz’s aft, the smaller port quivering in response.
Jazz moaned and rocked forward onto his fingers, trying to urge them deeper. His spike panel popped, spike extending, beading lubricant at the tip. His field fizzled with static heat, crackling over Ricochet’s.
His spike throbbed. Ricochet let it free, rubbing the head of it against Jazz’s aft. He gripped his brother’s hips with both hands and rocked upward, grinding his spike over Jazz’s aft.
“You don’t overload until I let you,” Ricochet growled as Jazz grabbed his arms to help his balance. “Understand?”
Jazz’s head lay on his shoulder, vents bursting with damp heat. “Yes, sir,” he panted, and Primus, that was a beautiful sound.
Ricochet grinned and pulled Jazz into position, the blunt head of his spike nudging at Jazz’s aft. He waited, grinding against it, until Jazz made a desperate noise in his intake.
“I hope that door locked,” Ricochet purred into his brother’s audial. He pulled Jazz down, sinking slowly into him, as Jazz keened and stilled atop him. “What if they run outta somethin’, huh? They’re gonna come in here, and they’re gonna see you with a spike up yer aft.”
Jazz’s field flooded the room with a flashfire of lust. He writhed on top of Ricochet and snapped his hips back, taking Ricochet to the hilt. More lubricant trickled out of his bare valve, soaking his aft.
“You’d like that, I bet.” Ricochet let go of his hips and palmed Jazz’s visible array with one hand, sliding the other back around his throat. “What if I let them use this? They won’t be able to help themselves, such a tasty valve you have.”
He slid his longest finger past Jazz’s rim, curving it just right to rub hard against the cluster of nodes just inside. Jazz made an incoherent noise, closer to a whimper.
“You’d let them, I know ya would,” Ricochet purred.
Jazz said something like “hngh” and charge crackled over his armor. His spike bobbed, transfluid dripping off the tip to hit the floor beneath them.
“Touch yourself,” Ricochet ordered, and tightened his grip on Jazz’s intake, not enough to cut off his oral vents, but enough to serve as a warning. “But don’t overload.”
Shaking fingers rose and wrapped around his spike. Jazz gave himself a squeeze, jerking up into his hand with an audible gasp. His aft squeezed around Ricochet’s spike.
Ricochet groaned and flexed his fingers around Jazz’s intake, feeling the bob of his swallow. Jazz’s fans whined from the strain, but his field surged with stronger arousal, drowning out all other sensation. Ricochet grinned against the back of Jazz’s neck, grazing his denta over it.
He wasn’t going to last long, lucky for Jazz. His brother’s frame was too perfect, too welcoming, and he gave himself so willingly, it was intoxicating.
He braced his feet on the ground and started to thrust, driving deep, plunging into Jazz with faster and faster strokes. His engine revved, loud in the small confines of the closet, and Jazz started to keen, wordless, gasping babbles though what little air he could grab around Ricochet’s grip.
Ricochet knew what Jazz wanted, better than Jazz himself. Just like he knew what Jazz wanted from Bluestreak, and whether or not Bluestreak could offer it back.
He could.
That wasn’t the point. Jazz had to figure it out for himself or it would never work. Ricochet didn’t mind loaning out his twin to someone who would treat him right, like Bluestreak. Until then, Jazz was his, and Ricochet would give him anything he needed.
Like this, like taking him again and again, using him the way he wanted to be used, dominating him until he didn’t have to think, until all he had left was to feel. Jazz surrendered to it, giving himself over to Ricochet, his aft clenching around him, and his spike throbbing desperately. He gasped around Ricochet’s fingers, wordlessly demanding a further push of boundaries. He stroked himself obediently, pre-fluid streaming over his fingers.
“Next time you need this, I’ll take the time to tie you down,” Ricochet murmured, the fantasy unspooling in his processor as he thrust into his brother, taking him harder and faster and deeper. “You won’t be able to move. You won’t be able to do anything but take what I give you.”
He grunted as he thrust up, bouncing Jazz in his lap, and his brother spasmed, squeezing his spike hard to stave off overload. He panted, vents spilling heat into the tiny space.
“And then I’ll hand you over to Bluestreak,” Ricochet said, the burst of need in his brother’s field giving him all the answer about Bluestreak. “I’ll sit back, and I’ll watch as he breaks you, and we can put you back together again.”
Jazz garbled a moan. His field screamed, begging for it.
Primus, he was perfect.
Overload snatched hold of Ricochet, and he yanked Jazz down onto his spike as he spilled his pleasure, painting Jazz’s aft port with his transfluid. He ground deep, enough for discomfort, fingers squeezing Jazz’s intake past the point of comfort.
Jazz convulsed in his grip, a low keening at the base of his intake, rattling around Ricochet’s fingers. He gripped his spike hard enough for it to hurt, every armor plate tensing from the strain.
“Do it,” Ricochet commanded, static in his vocals as the pleasure striped his visual feed in gray static. “Overload.”
Jazz snatched his hand away from his spike as though he’d been burned, and transfluid erupted from the tip, splattering across the floor. He tossed his head back in Ricochet’s grip, gasping static as he overloaded, aft rhythmically squeezing and valve spasming around Ricochet’s fingers.
Ricochet grabbed Jazz’s chin and pulled him into a kiss, claiming his brother’s mouth with lips and denta and glossa. Jazz moaned into the kiss and tried to pull away.
“Mine,” Ricochet growled and bit at his bottom lip.
Jazz jerked, his field drizzling lust. “Wait. Stop. I gotta--” He cut off, vents audibly gasping. “My comm!”
“They can wait.” Ricochet sealed their lips together, deepening the kiss, tasting the desperation on Jazz’s glossa.
Jazz grabbed at his wrist and wriggled, becoming as slippery as an electro-eel. “It’s Prowl!” he snapped and pulled back, his visor flashing.
Ricochet growled but shifted his hold to curve around his brother’s waist, keeping Jazz speared on his spike. He wasn’t done yet.
“Fragger,” Jazz hissed, slapping at him, but his other hand rose to his comm. “What is it, Prowl? I’m busy.”
Ricochet slid his other hand over Jazz’s thigh, creeping toward his groin. He painted his fingers in lubricant, tracing them around Jazz’s valve rim.
“I don’t answer to yer beck and call, ya know,” Jazz snapped even as he shivered, rocking his hips on Ricochet’s spike. “That’s not the point.”
Ricochet grinned and found Jazz’s anterior node, pinning it between his thumb and forefinger and giving it a sharp pinch. Jazz hissed and swung an elbow back into his chassis.
Ricochet chuckled and gentled his touch, playing with his twin while he waited for Jazz to pay attention to him.
“Fine,” Jazz bit out, and his field spiked with anger, erasing half the work Ricochet had done to ease his stress. “I’ll be there.” He dropped his hand with a sharp snap.
Ricochet circled his anterior node. “Well, that’s unfortunate.”
“You’re tellin’ me.” Jazz growled a sigh. He grabbed Ricochet’s wrist and lifted it away from his valve. “I gotta go.” He pulled them up, glossa lapping over them, cleaning up his own lubricant.
“Such a shame.” Ricochet stroked Jazz’s glossa, shivering as Jazz lapped at his fingers eagerly. “Prowl loves to ruin a good time.”
Jazz groaned. “Tell me about it.” He pulled off Ricochet’s spike slowly, with evident reluctance, and cupped Ricochet’s face, brushing their lips together. “Thanks, bro. I owe you one.”
“Several, but who’s counting?”
~
Prowl had given up on going home. When was it he’d last recharged in his apartment? A week ago? Longer?
There was too much work to do. Mechs were dying, and he couldn’t keep a lid on it any longer. The rumors spread faster than he could stop them, and now the newsmechs had picked up on it. By tomorrow, all of Cybertron would know that mechs were being murdered and they had yet to catch a perpetrator.
Tomorrow was going to be a very, very bad day.
His door opened.
“I’d ask what took you so long, but frankly, I don’t want to know,” Prowl said without looking up to acknowledge his visitor. He already knew who it was, this late at night when everyone else in the office had gone home for the day. “Just get in here.”
Jazz snorted, and the door shut behind him. “Yeah, nice to see you, too. Ya find someone to frag ya yet? Because you could surely use an overload or two.”
Prowl narrowed his optics and lifted his gaze. Jazz had his arms crossed under his bumper, and a scowl on his lips. He’d also been less than thorough in cleaning himself, because a few specks of lubricant glittered on his inner thighs.
Typical.
“I’ve finished compiling the data,” Prowl said, careful to keep his tone bland and unaffected. He would not rise to Jazz’s bait. He tilted his head toward a datapad on the corner of his desk. “There.”
“What data?” Jazz unbent long enough to pick up the datapad and power it on, skimming quickly over the table of contents.
“That is a summary and cross-connection of every Wrecker who ever served, the missions they were assigned, the mechs they encountered, and the teams they were assigned. There’s also a map of all their connections: romantic, platonic, and otherwise.”
“Primus, Prowl. Don’t you recharge?”
Prowl sighed and scrubbed at his forehead, feeling an ache building behind his optics. “I’ll recharge when you catch this killer.” He pointed at the datapad. “There should be enough information to connect the dots there.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yourself,” Jazz commented, and there was a begrudging respect in his voice.
“I’m missing context.” Prowl lowered his gaze back to his paperwork. “I don’t have time to interview mechs. That’s your job.” He pulled up Starscream’s proposal for off-planet mining. “I have my suspects.”
Jazz frowned in Prowl’s peripheral vision. “Who?”
“When I find some evidence, you’ll know. Until then, it’s suspicion only.” He looked up, over the bridge of his nose. “Find me some evidence.”
“Yeah, sure. Lemme just pull it out of my aft.” Jazz chuffed a vent, his field spiking with irritation, obviously aimed at Prowl. Because Jazz didn’t let anyone taste his field who he didn’t want.
Prowl flicked a hand at him. “If that’s where you think you're going to find it.”
Jazz huffed. “You’re an aft, Prowl,” he snarled, and spun on a heelstrut, stomping out the door and taking his storm of a field with him.
Prowl waited until the count of twenty before he reached for the comm console on his desk and activated it.
“Springarm? Do it.”
~
Ricochet smelled like interfacing. He stank of ozone, of lubricant and transfluid, and whatever he’d done, he’d only given himself a cursory wipe because there were paint streaks on his thighs and abdominal armor.
Blurr noticed because he was a bartender, and his livelihood depended on him being observant.
There was an ease at which Ricochet sat at the end of the bar, after he’d been missing for the better part of twenty minutes, only to emerge from Blurr’s storage room on Jazz’s heelstruts. Jazz looked angry, didn’t even stop to say hello, but Ricochet had a smug look on his face.
Blurr wasn’t jealous. There was no need to be jealous.
Curious now.
He was definitely curious.
“Look,” he said as he rapped his knuckles on the counter to get Ricochet’s attention. “I don’t really care what you and your brother do together, but not in my bar.”
Ricochet smirked and snagged a handful of rusted bolts, popping them into his mouth. “You tryin’ to tell me you ain’t never had a tryst or two in that store room.”
“It’s my bar. I can do whatever I want,” Blurr said. He tugged the bowl out of Ricochet’s reach. Those were for paying customers.
Ricochet grabbed the bowl, and it stalled between them. He grinned up at Blurr. “Can ya take a break then? I got a nice, cozy crate in your storage room.”
“Didn’t you get enough?” Blurr chuffed and let go of the bowl.
Ricochet dragged it back close. He popped another candied bolt into his mouth. “Didn’t get to finish. Besides, there’s always room for dessert.”
“I don’t like sloppy seconds.”
“So you’re jealous.”
Blurr planted his hands on the edge of the counter and glared. “What would I have to be jealous of?”
Ricochet leaned forward, his field reaching out and stroking on the edges of Blurr’s, buzzing with heat and promise. “Mmm. The things I could do you ya, maybe.”
“You’d do them anyway,” Blurr retorted, ignoring the shiver that climbed down his spinal strut and took up residence in his groin.
“True. But I could indulge now rather than later.” Ricochet’s glossa swept over his lips, and Blurr tracked the motion. “Up to you.”
A strange ripple spread through his bar. It made Blurr’s sensors prickle, and he looked up from Ricochet toward the main door, where a handful of the local law enforcement had stepped in the doors. They carried themselves too stiffly, with squared shoulders and no-nonsense expressions, to be here for an after-shift drink.
“Hold that thought,” Blurr said. He moved to the end of the bar, tossing a meshcloth over his shoulder. “Looking for something, gentlemechs?”
One of them stepped toward the bar, his Enforcer badge gleaming on his chestplate. It took a moment, but Blurr recognized him as a frequent customer -- Springarm.
“Sorry to disturb your evening, Blurr. We’re looking for someone in particular,” Springarm said, and behind him, his fellow guards were scanning the bar.
Blurr braced his weight on the counter edge. “Who? Maybe I’ve seen him.”
“Sir.” The pale gray Enforcer to Springarm’s right tapped him on the arm. “He’s over there.” He tilted his head pointedly.
Blurr followed his gaze.
He stiffened.
The Enforcers, as one, had set their sights on Ricochet.
***
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.
Nine days.
Hardly a blip in the lifespan of a Cybertronian, but oh, it was nine days Ricochet was never going to forget. He’d forgotten how much fun semi-hate sex was. And no one had ever told him that Racers could go and go and go.
Blurr was ever so much fun.
Not that he didn’t take his job seriously, because he did. Once Blurr was a puddle of sated blue metal in his berth, Ricochet slipped out and patrolled. He checked the windows and doors. He fiddled with the security system to make it more secure -- honestly, Blurr was lucky no thief had broken in on him already, his security was sparkling-play.
Ricochet had thought this was a pity gig. That Jazz knew he was out of sorts without any real work to be had, so he’d offered this task out of a sense of brotherly fondness. Ricochet didn’t think there was any real threat.
Then this morning, another Wrecker turned up dead. Executed actually, a triple-tap to Rossum’s Trinity to make sure there was no saving him. Nasty business, assassinations were. Ricochet was glad to be done with them. He much preferred the face to face destruction of his foes.
After that, Blurr went to work this morning, and for the first time, didn’t complain about Ricochet following him. He supposed the seriousness of the situation finally got through to the bartender.
The dead Wrecker had refused any type of guard. Perhaps he’d been rethinking his refusal as he looked death in the face.
Ricochet snorted. People could be so stubborn over the most stupid things.
He took position at the bar this time, tucked in a corner by the wall, rather than in a booth. Those, Blurr had told him, were reserved for paying, return customers. Not useless layabouts who liked to ogle the bartender’s aft.
That suited Ricochet just fine. He had a better view from here, and if Blurr didn’t snap to it fast enough, he could reach over the bar and grab whatever engex was within reach.
Win, win.
It was a busy night. Blurr ran around so much Ricochet didn’t have time to flirt with him, grope him, or catch much of an ogle. He had to entertain himself with engex, his gamepad, and occasionally catching conversation with Bluestreak.
He could see why Jazz carried such a torch for the mech honestly. There was something disarmingly charming about Bluestreak, though it took one to know one, and Ricochet could see the darkness behind his smile.
It helped that he had a nice aft, and Ricochet could make good use of those sensory panels. Too bad they would never be compatible in the berth.
“Are ya oglin’ the bartender?”
Ricochet grinned as the stool beside him rattled, and his brother climbed up into it, his field a barely contained chaotic frenzy behind his placid smile.
“Course I am. That’s what they’re here for, right?” Ricochet half-leaned against the counter, scanning his twin from top to bottom.
Primus, this case was running him ragged, wasn’t it? He didn’t know the last time he’d felt this much of a storm in Jazz’s field. His armor was taut to his frame, and the light in his visor was pale. Must’ve struck out with Bluestreak again, on top of it.
“Ya look terrible,” Ricochet said.
Jazz snorted and lead his head on the counter, though turned to face Ricochet. “That obvious?”
“Only ta me, probably. I know ya like I know my own spark.” He nudged his engex toward Jazz. “Want some? It’s free.”
“I don’t drink that cheap slag. I got better taste than that.” Jazz sighed a ventilation. “How’re you and Blurr gettin’ on, by the way?”
Ricochet grinned and took a long drag of his engex. “He’s a good frag.”
“Figures.” Jazz’s lower lip jutted out in a pout. “Better’n me?”
“No one’s better’n you, bro.” Ricochet sucked on the edge of the cube and hooked his foot around a rung on Jazz’s stool, tugging him within reach. “He’s not the reason ya came here though.”
Jazz’s visor flickered. “Ugh. I hate how ya know me so well.” He pushed himself upright, swiveling in the chair to face Ricochet, their knees knocking together. “I need you.”
“What about Blurr?”
“Blue’s here. He’ll be fine.”
Ricochet fiddled with his cube before he tipped it back, draining it. He set it upside-down on the counter. “Where?”
Jazz visibly perked, and something like relief sank into his field, putting a ripple in already turbulent waters. “Storage room. Blurr’s done his restocking for the week. Shouldn’t be anything anyone needs in it right now.”
“Not that ya care if ya get an audience,” Ricochet said as he slid from the stool, resting both of his hands on Jazz’s thighs, extending his talons only to sink them into Jazz’s armor. The screech of claw on plating was buried in the ambient noise of the bar. “Right?”
Jazz’s visor turned liquid with lust. “Yeah.” He licked his lips, thighs squirming open under the weight of Ricochet’s hands. “Though Blurr might be a little angry if we do it here.”
Ricochet leaned in, nuzzling into his brother’s throat, where the faintest imprints of his bites from earlier this week lingered. “Is it Blurr yer worried ‘bout, or Bluestreak?” He slid upward, until his thumbs found Jazz’s valve cover, and he pressed firmly against it, in a slow circle.
Jazz sucked in a vent. A low whine built in his intake. “Don’t,” he murmured, and Ricochet knew he wasn’t talking about the touching.
“You’re such a soft spark.” Ricochet sucked a cable between his denta and bit down, making Jazz jerk against him. “Thinkin’ me not talkin’ about it means it don’t exist. I got your number, bro. You’re gonna have to face it sooner or later.”
Hips rocked against his fingers in minute motions, making the stool creak. Jazz’s vents were audibly labored, and his field clung to Ricochet’s with tacky, desperate want.
“He said no.”
Ricochet lifted his head and grabbed Jazz’s chin, forcing their visors to meet as he pressed his forehead to Jazz’s. “That’s not what he said.”
“Not now,” Jazz said, but his visor fluttered, and his vents grew even more rapid.
“This isn’t over.” He flicked Jazz’s panel with his finger, making his brother startle. “Now show me the storage room.”
Jazz’s engine revved.
They slipped off the stools -- and a cursory glance found more than a few faces turned their way, they’d earned some attention. Ricochet bore his denta at them, and said faces quickly returned to their conversations.
Mine.
Ricochet let Jazz play, gave him up from time to time, but when it came down to it, Jazz was his first and always.
The storage room was small and cramped, with crates and boxes stacked together, all neatly labeled. There was a narrow walkway in the middle, and a single light flickered above them. The door clicked shut behind them -- opened by a code Jazz either owned or hacked.
Ricochet looked around, whistling. “Wow. Someone’s a little compulsive, aren’t they?”
“Weekdays are borin’.”
Ricochet snorted and grabbed what he figured was the biggest crate and hauled it into the center. He sat down on it and looked up at his twin, whose visor had turned bright and needy. He crooked a finger.
“Come.”
It only took a step or two for him to get into reach, and Ricochet struck, grabbing the underside of his bumper and hauling him in closer. Jazz yelped and tumbled down against him, nearly knocking down another crate as he flailed.
“So ungraceful,” Ricochet mocked.
“Ya didn’t give me any warning!”
“I don’t have to.” Ricochet pulled him down into a biting kiss, hard enough to leave his lower lip bruised.
Jazz moaned against his mouth, his field rising and crashing against Ricochet’s with a desperation he didn’t often show. He really needed this.
Ricochet grinned and spun his brother around, tugging Jazz into his lap, but legs splayed wide over his thighs. They were currently facing the door, which meant if anyone opened it, they’d get an opticful.
Perfect.
“Open,” Ricochet demanded as he snaked an arm around his brother’s waist, his palm cupping the entirety of Jazz’s array. He spread his knees, forcing Jazz’s legs even wider, thanking Primus and Unicron his brother was so flexible.
Jazz’s vents wheezed. He tipped back against Ricochet’s chassis, and his panel sprung open, lubricant seeping out of his valve. Ricochet immediately plunged two fingers inside, pushing deep.
“Good,” he purred. “But not the one I wanted.” He curved his other hand around, wrapping his fingers around Jazz’s intake. “Open up.”
A low whine rose in Jazz’s intake, his field molten. He went liquid in Ricochet’s arms, complete submission, and his aft panel snicked aside in offering.
“Good boy,” Ricochet murmured and bit at the side of Jazz’s intake as he took his lubricant coated fingers and plunged them into Jazz’s aft, the smaller port quivering in response.
Jazz moaned and rocked forward onto his fingers, trying to urge them deeper. His spike panel popped, spike extending, beading lubricant at the tip. His field fizzled with static heat, crackling over Ricochet’s.
His spike throbbed. Ricochet let it free, rubbing the head of it against Jazz’s aft. He gripped his brother’s hips with both hands and rocked upward, grinding his spike over Jazz’s aft.
“You don’t overload until I let you,” Ricochet growled as Jazz grabbed his arms to help his balance. “Understand?”
Jazz’s head lay on his shoulder, vents bursting with damp heat. “Yes, sir,” he panted, and Primus, that was a beautiful sound.
Ricochet grinned and pulled Jazz into position, the blunt head of his spike nudging at Jazz’s aft. He waited, grinding against it, until Jazz made a desperate noise in his intake.
“I hope that door locked,” Ricochet purred into his brother’s audial. He pulled Jazz down, sinking slowly into him, as Jazz keened and stilled atop him. “What if they run outta somethin’, huh? They’re gonna come in here, and they’re gonna see you with a spike up yer aft.”
Jazz’s field flooded the room with a flashfire of lust. He writhed on top of Ricochet and snapped his hips back, taking Ricochet to the hilt. More lubricant trickled out of his bare valve, soaking his aft.
“You’d like that, I bet.” Ricochet let go of his hips and palmed Jazz’s visible array with one hand, sliding the other back around his throat. “What if I let them use this? They won’t be able to help themselves, such a tasty valve you have.”
He slid his longest finger past Jazz’s rim, curving it just right to rub hard against the cluster of nodes just inside. Jazz made an incoherent noise, closer to a whimper.
“You’d let them, I know ya would,” Ricochet purred.
Jazz said something like “hngh” and charge crackled over his armor. His spike bobbed, transfluid dripping off the tip to hit the floor beneath them.
“Touch yourself,” Ricochet ordered, and tightened his grip on Jazz’s intake, not enough to cut off his oral vents, but enough to serve as a warning. “But don’t overload.”
Shaking fingers rose and wrapped around his spike. Jazz gave himself a squeeze, jerking up into his hand with an audible gasp. His aft squeezed around Ricochet’s spike.
Ricochet groaned and flexed his fingers around Jazz’s intake, feeling the bob of his swallow. Jazz’s fans whined from the strain, but his field surged with stronger arousal, drowning out all other sensation. Ricochet grinned against the back of Jazz’s neck, grazing his denta over it.
He wasn’t going to last long, lucky for Jazz. His brother’s frame was too perfect, too welcoming, and he gave himself so willingly, it was intoxicating.
He braced his feet on the ground and started to thrust, driving deep, plunging into Jazz with faster and faster strokes. His engine revved, loud in the small confines of the closet, and Jazz started to keen, wordless, gasping babbles though what little air he could grab around Ricochet’s grip.
Ricochet knew what Jazz wanted, better than Jazz himself. Just like he knew what Jazz wanted from Bluestreak, and whether or not Bluestreak could offer it back.
He could.
That wasn’t the point. Jazz had to figure it out for himself or it would never work. Ricochet didn’t mind loaning out his twin to someone who would treat him right, like Bluestreak. Until then, Jazz was his, and Ricochet would give him anything he needed.
Like this, like taking him again and again, using him the way he wanted to be used, dominating him until he didn’t have to think, until all he had left was to feel. Jazz surrendered to it, giving himself over to Ricochet, his aft clenching around him, and his spike throbbing desperately. He gasped around Ricochet’s fingers, wordlessly demanding a further push of boundaries. He stroked himself obediently, pre-fluid streaming over his fingers.
“Next time you need this, I’ll take the time to tie you down,” Ricochet murmured, the fantasy unspooling in his processor as he thrust into his brother, taking him harder and faster and deeper. “You won’t be able to move. You won’t be able to do anything but take what I give you.”
He grunted as he thrust up, bouncing Jazz in his lap, and his brother spasmed, squeezing his spike hard to stave off overload. He panted, vents spilling heat into the tiny space.
“And then I’ll hand you over to Bluestreak,” Ricochet said, the burst of need in his brother’s field giving him all the answer about Bluestreak. “I’ll sit back, and I’ll watch as he breaks you, and we can put you back together again.”
Jazz garbled a moan. His field screamed, begging for it.
Primus, he was perfect.
Overload snatched hold of Ricochet, and he yanked Jazz down onto his spike as he spilled his pleasure, painting Jazz’s aft port with his transfluid. He ground deep, enough for discomfort, fingers squeezing Jazz’s intake past the point of comfort.
Jazz convulsed in his grip, a low keening at the base of his intake, rattling around Ricochet’s fingers. He gripped his spike hard enough for it to hurt, every armor plate tensing from the strain.
“Do it,” Ricochet commanded, static in his vocals as the pleasure striped his visual feed in gray static. “Overload.”
Jazz snatched his hand away from his spike as though he’d been burned, and transfluid erupted from the tip, splattering across the floor. He tossed his head back in Ricochet’s grip, gasping static as he overloaded, aft rhythmically squeezing and valve spasming around Ricochet’s fingers.
Ricochet grabbed Jazz’s chin and pulled him into a kiss, claiming his brother’s mouth with lips and denta and glossa. Jazz moaned into the kiss and tried to pull away.
“Mine,” Ricochet growled and bit at his bottom lip.
Jazz jerked, his field drizzling lust. “Wait. Stop. I gotta--” He cut off, vents audibly gasping. “My comm!”
“They can wait.” Ricochet sealed their lips together, deepening the kiss, tasting the desperation on Jazz’s glossa.
Jazz grabbed at his wrist and wriggled, becoming as slippery as an electro-eel. “It’s Prowl!” he snapped and pulled back, his visor flashing.
Ricochet growled but shifted his hold to curve around his brother’s waist, keeping Jazz speared on his spike. He wasn’t done yet.
“Fragger,” Jazz hissed, slapping at him, but his other hand rose to his comm. “What is it, Prowl? I’m busy.”
Ricochet slid his other hand over Jazz’s thigh, creeping toward his groin. He painted his fingers in lubricant, tracing them around Jazz’s valve rim.
“I don’t answer to yer beck and call, ya know,” Jazz snapped even as he shivered, rocking his hips on Ricochet’s spike. “That’s not the point.”
Ricochet grinned and found Jazz’s anterior node, pinning it between his thumb and forefinger and giving it a sharp pinch. Jazz hissed and swung an elbow back into his chassis.
Ricochet chuckled and gentled his touch, playing with his twin while he waited for Jazz to pay attention to him.
“Fine,” Jazz bit out, and his field spiked with anger, erasing half the work Ricochet had done to ease his stress. “I’ll be there.” He dropped his hand with a sharp snap.
Ricochet circled his anterior node. “Well, that’s unfortunate.”
“You’re tellin’ me.” Jazz growled a sigh. He grabbed Ricochet’s wrist and lifted it away from his valve. “I gotta go.” He pulled them up, glossa lapping over them, cleaning up his own lubricant.
“Such a shame.” Ricochet stroked Jazz’s glossa, shivering as Jazz lapped at his fingers eagerly. “Prowl loves to ruin a good time.”
Jazz groaned. “Tell me about it.” He pulled off Ricochet’s spike slowly, with evident reluctance, and cupped Ricochet’s face, brushing their lips together. “Thanks, bro. I owe you one.”
“Several, but who’s counting?”
Prowl had given up on going home. When was it he’d last recharged in his apartment? A week ago? Longer?
There was too much work to do. Mechs were dying, and he couldn’t keep a lid on it any longer. The rumors spread faster than he could stop them, and now the newsmechs had picked up on it. By tomorrow, all of Cybertron would know that mechs were being murdered and they had yet to catch a perpetrator.
Tomorrow was going to be a very, very bad day.
His door opened.
“I’d ask what took you so long, but frankly, I don’t want to know,” Prowl said without looking up to acknowledge his visitor. He already knew who it was, this late at night when everyone else in the office had gone home for the day. “Just get in here.”
Jazz snorted, and the door shut behind him. “Yeah, nice to see you, too. Ya find someone to frag ya yet? Because you could surely use an overload or two.”
Prowl narrowed his optics and lifted his gaze. Jazz had his arms crossed under his bumper, and a scowl on his lips. He’d also been less than thorough in cleaning himself, because a few specks of lubricant glittered on his inner thighs.
Typical.
“I’ve finished compiling the data,” Prowl said, careful to keep his tone bland and unaffected. He would not rise to Jazz’s bait. He tilted his head toward a datapad on the corner of his desk. “There.”
“What data?” Jazz unbent long enough to pick up the datapad and power it on, skimming quickly over the table of contents.
“That is a summary and cross-connection of every Wrecker who ever served, the missions they were assigned, the mechs they encountered, and the teams they were assigned. There’s also a map of all their connections: romantic, platonic, and otherwise.”
“Primus, Prowl. Don’t you recharge?”
Prowl sighed and scrubbed at his forehead, feeling an ache building behind his optics. “I’ll recharge when you catch this killer.” He pointed at the datapad. “There should be enough information to connect the dots there.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yourself,” Jazz commented, and there was a begrudging respect in his voice.
“I’m missing context.” Prowl lowered his gaze back to his paperwork. “I don’t have time to interview mechs. That’s your job.” He pulled up Starscream’s proposal for off-planet mining. “I have my suspects.”
Jazz frowned in Prowl’s peripheral vision. “Who?”
“When I find some evidence, you’ll know. Until then, it’s suspicion only.” He looked up, over the bridge of his nose. “Find me some evidence.”
“Yeah, sure. Lemme just pull it out of my aft.” Jazz chuffed a vent, his field spiking with irritation, obviously aimed at Prowl. Because Jazz didn’t let anyone taste his field who he didn’t want.
Prowl flicked a hand at him. “If that’s where you think you're going to find it.”
Jazz huffed. “You’re an aft, Prowl,” he snarled, and spun on a heelstrut, stomping out the door and taking his storm of a field with him.
Prowl waited until the count of twenty before he reached for the comm console on his desk and activated it.
“Springarm? Do it.”
Ricochet smelled like interfacing. He stank of ozone, of lubricant and transfluid, and whatever he’d done, he’d only given himself a cursory wipe because there were paint streaks on his thighs and abdominal armor.
Blurr noticed because he was a bartender, and his livelihood depended on him being observant.
There was an ease at which Ricochet sat at the end of the bar, after he’d been missing for the better part of twenty minutes, only to emerge from Blurr’s storage room on Jazz’s heelstruts. Jazz looked angry, didn’t even stop to say hello, but Ricochet had a smug look on his face.
Blurr wasn’t jealous. There was no need to be jealous.
Curious now.
He was definitely curious.
“Look,” he said as he rapped his knuckles on the counter to get Ricochet’s attention. “I don’t really care what you and your brother do together, but not in my bar.”
Ricochet smirked and snagged a handful of rusted bolts, popping them into his mouth. “You tryin’ to tell me you ain’t never had a tryst or two in that store room.”
“It’s my bar. I can do whatever I want,” Blurr said. He tugged the bowl out of Ricochet’s reach. Those were for paying customers.
Ricochet grabbed the bowl, and it stalled between them. He grinned up at Blurr. “Can ya take a break then? I got a nice, cozy crate in your storage room.”
“Didn’t you get enough?” Blurr chuffed and let go of the bowl.
Ricochet dragged it back close. He popped another candied bolt into his mouth. “Didn’t get to finish. Besides, there’s always room for dessert.”
“I don’t like sloppy seconds.”
“So you’re jealous.”
Blurr planted his hands on the edge of the counter and glared. “What would I have to be jealous of?”
Ricochet leaned forward, his field reaching out and stroking on the edges of Blurr’s, buzzing with heat and promise. “Mmm. The things I could do you ya, maybe.”
“You’d do them anyway,” Blurr retorted, ignoring the shiver that climbed down his spinal strut and took up residence in his groin.
“True. But I could indulge now rather than later.” Ricochet’s glossa swept over his lips, and Blurr tracked the motion. “Up to you.”
A strange ripple spread through his bar. It made Blurr’s sensors prickle, and he looked up from Ricochet toward the main door, where a handful of the local law enforcement had stepped in the doors. They carried themselves too stiffly, with squared shoulders and no-nonsense expressions, to be here for an after-shift drink.
“Hold that thought,” Blurr said. He moved to the end of the bar, tossing a meshcloth over his shoulder. “Looking for something, gentlemechs?”
One of them stepped toward the bar, his Enforcer badge gleaming on his chestplate. It took a moment, but Blurr recognized him as a frequent customer -- Springarm.
“Sorry to disturb your evening, Blurr. We’re looking for someone in particular,” Springarm said, and behind him, his fellow guards were scanning the bar.
Blurr braced his weight on the counter edge. “Who? Maybe I’ve seen him.”
“Sir.” The pale gray Enforcer to Springarm’s right tapped him on the arm. “He’s over there.” He tilted his head pointedly.
Blurr followed his gaze.
He stiffened.
The Enforcers, as one, had set their sights on Ricochet.
