[IDW] A Perfect Storm 10/16
Jun. 10th, 2019 06:18 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 Ten
Life moved on.
Not that there wasn't an uproar.
Ricochet's disappearance and escape made it onto the evening news. Prowl had ensured the media was not specific as to the reasons behind his arrest, which caused a greater outrage from the Decepticons, especially Starscream who was demanding an explanation. At least the surviving Wreckers went back to being cautious, and their guards stuck around them, just in case.
Politically, the situation was a powder keg waiting to explode. It wasn't, however, any of Blurr's business.
He had a bar to run.
He went back to New Maccadam’s, and he went back to work, and he played dumb when anyone came by asking questions. Drift started to park himself on the end of the bar when he knew Blurr was working, nominating himself to take Ricochet's place apparently. Whether or not he was fully aware of Blurr's part in Ricochet's escape, Blurr didn't know.
He chose not to bring it up.
He worked. He went home. Sometimes, Jazz came for him and he was able to sneak down to where Jazz and Ricochet were hiding out, and they bent their heads together over the evidence to try and find the real murderer.
Ricochet's innocence should have been easy to prove.
Except within a week of his escape, another Wrecker was murdered. Fractal died in a fiery explosion, his apartment apparently rigged to ignite as soon as he came home. Another Autobot -- his partner -- died in the blast.
The mechhunt for Ricochet became even fiercer.
“I don’t know how many times I can tell you the same thing,” Blurr said as he cleaned a stack of dirty cubes, if only to give his hands something to do while Springarm stared him down, his lack of expression as unnerving now as it was the last two times he came to ask ‘a few questions.’
“I have no idea where Jazz or Ricochet are. I had nothing to do with his break out. I’m as shocked as anyone else, and in case you’ve forgotten, I’m a Wrecker, too. And he reprogrammed my security system.” Blurr added a scowl for good measure.
“Right.” Springarm’s tone was so flat, Blurr could have held a race on it. “Curious, then, that he hasn’t taken advantage of that knowledge to kill you next.”
Blurr narrowed his optics. “Is that a threat? Because it sounds like one.”
“Of course not. I was making an observation.” Springarm pulled out a datapad and made some kind of notation before he tucked it away. “Thank you for your cooperation in this investigation. If I have any further questions, I know where to find you.”
Blurr scowled at him. “Yeah. Running my bar.”
Springarm nodded with something that only faintly resembled respect. He spun on a heelstrut and strode out of the bar, Blurr glaring holes between his shoulder tires for his entire exit.
Aft.
Once he’d gone, Blurr left the dirty cubes alone and went looking for someone to serve. Not that he had many customers since the Enforcers had come to New Maccadam’s a week ago, arresting Ricochet and bringing Blurr in for questioning. It had been busy at first, according to Bluestreak and Riptide. Mechs had come by for the sheer curiosity of it.
After Ricochet’s escape, however, New Maccadam’s was avoided by the general public. Maybe they feared getting swept up in the investigation or being implicated. Springarm’s frequent visits for “follow-up questioning” didn’t help.
Blurr was not amused. His income suffered, and he still had the possibility of a Wrecker-hating assassin trying to stab, shoot, or explode his aft.
“So you don’t know anything?” Drift asked as Blurr wandered to the end of the bar where Drift had taken up perch, appointing himself Blurr’s guardian for the evening, though he was equally at risk of attack.
“Why would I?” Blurr asked. He reached under the bar and pulled out the box of crumbled rust treats, refilling the bowl in front of Drift.
A grin thanked him. “No reason.” Drift’s orbital ridges rose pointedly. He grabbed a handful of the crisps. “You tell Ricochet about the sparkling before he, you know, escaped?”
“No.” Blurr capped the box and put it back. He glanced through the bar, counting patrons.
“Why not?”
Blurr didn’t have a good answer for that. He counted seven customers, most of whom were regulars, only one of whom he didn’t recognize.
“Because it doesn’t matter if he knows or not. I’m keeping it.”
“You don’t think he has a right to know?” Drift asked, and something in the question felt needling.
Blurr bristled without knowing why. “I think I’m going to close early tonight,” he said instead. “You should go home to Ratchet.”
Drift held up his hands, leaning back from the counter. “Sure you don’t want me to watch your back?”
“I can take care of myself.” As he’d told Jazz from the beginning, so really, this was all Jazz’s fault.
“Of course you can.” Drift grinned and saluted him with a cube. “We’re Wreckers.”
Yes, they were.
~
Blurr wouldn’t admit to anyone, but Springarm made him twitchy, made him look over his shoulder, taking roundabout routes, and sticking to the shadows. He utilized skills he’d thought he’d forgotten, dipping into an underlevel access far from his usual one, and doubling back on himself just to throw off anyone trailing him.
He should have gone home. It would have been wiser.
He ended up at Jazz and Ricochet’s safehouse instead. He only got lost once, and he tapped the door to announce himself. Ricochet answered, and he gave Blurr a grin that could best be described as sleazy.
“Don’t say anything,” Blurr said as he pushed his way inside and scanned the interior. Washrack door open, washrack empty. Berthroom door open, berthroom empty. “Where’s Jazz?”
“Out.” The door closed and locked. Footsteps barely scuffed the floor before Ricochet’s heat pressed against Blurr’s back, and his ex-vents teased Blurr’s audial. “Why? You wantin’ another twin sandwich?”
Blurr licked his lips. “Not this time.” It had been amazing. It had been processor-blowing. It had been intense. And he didn’t want to wait for Jazz to return to repeat it.
He needed it now.
Hands settled on Blurr’s shoulders, sliding agonizingly slow down his arms. “Jazz’s gonna be jealous that ya just want me,” Ricochet purred as he ex-vented hot and wet over Blurr’s audial. “Maybe I should save him a vid.”
“Or maybe you should stop slagging around and just frag me already,” Blurr growled, though it threatened to devolve into a purr when Ricochet nipped his audial.
Ricochet chuckled on the edge of a growl and rocked against Blurr’s aft, his field dragging heavy against Blurr’s. “I can definitely do that, Speedy.”
Blurr growled. “Stop calling me that,” he said, and swung an elbow around, slamming it into Ricochet’s abdomen.
Ricochet grunted, and backed off, giving Blurr enough room to slip out of his reach. Not with intent to escape, but heading directly toward the berthroom. He didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know that Ricochet was following him, a hunger building in his visor.
The sight of it made Blurr shudder. His valve clenched on nothing, already lubricating, spike starting to pressurize behind his panel. Yes, this was what he wanted. Pleasure. Meaningless. Something that didn’t matter.
The berthroom seemed smaller somehow, even though Jazz wasn’t here this time. It reeked of interfacing, the covers rumpled and twisted. The mental image of Jazz and Ricochet tangled together on the mattress assailed Blurr, and he shivered at the memory of being pressed between them. It sent a hot wave of desire through his frame.
“Gettin’ right to it?” Ricochet asked as he followed Blurr inside, giving the door a half-hearted push toward closing. “I’m down with that.”
“Good.” Blurr turned, snagged Ricochet by the arm and swung him toward the berth. Something he probably shouldn’t have been able to do, but Ricochet humored him, landing on his aft on the berth with a rickety bounce. “Open up.”
An orbital ridge arched as Ricochet pulled himself completely onto the berth, hands braced behind him. He tilted his head. “Plan to frag me? Is that it?”
Blurr clambered onto the berth after him, straddling his thighs. “Something like that. Open.” He dragged his fingers over Ricochet’s panel, the heat of him pushing against Blurr’s derma.
Amusement curved Ricochet's lips. "Sure. I'll go with that." His panel spiraled open, spike jutting out, and he reached toward it.
Blurr flicked his hand away. "No," he said, and bent forward, wrapping his lips around the head of Ricochet's spike, moaning as the taste of Ricochet spilled over his glossa. Primus, he'd forgotten how much he loved to suck spike, though he hadn't wanted to let Ricochet know that.
Fragger was arrogant enough already.
Ricochet's vents stuttered. His hips pushed upward before Blurr grabbed them and shoved down, sliding his lips further onto Ricochet's spike, a pulse of arousal throbbing on his glossa.
"Okay. Yeah. This is good, too," Ricochet groaned and slid a hand around Blurr's head, fingertips stroking his crest. "For a start. Got better ideas than finishin' down yer intake though."
Blurr swallowed around him twice, dragging a hitched vent from Ricochet, before he let Ricochet fall from his mouth, spike glossy with his oral lubricant. "It's not up to you." He licked his lips.
"Is that right?" Ricochet folded his arms behind his head, lips twisted in a smirk. "Well then. Why don't you show me what it is you want, Zippy? Since I'm just a spike to you."
"Don't act offended." Blurr curved his fingers around Ricochet's spike, giving him three squeezing strokes, pulling out a bead of pre-fluid that he immediately lapped up.
Ricochet's visor brightened with arousal. His field throbbed, heavy and full, blanketing Blurr in it. "Maybe I am."
Blurr snorted and rose up, sliding forward, his thighs bracketing Ricochet's spike. "Offended enough for me to leave?" He reached down, aimed Ricochet's spike at his valve, rubbing the head of it against the swollen pleats. Lubricant dripped steadily, his vents coming in sharp pants. "Or do you want me?"
"You're playin' a dangerous game, Speedy." Ricochet's engine growled, his field growing heavier and hotter. "Ya might not like what ya provoke."
Blurr smirked and dropped down, taking Ricochet's spike to the hilt, his internal nodes lighting up with pleasure as he bottomed out. He shuddered, even as he lengthened his smirk. "Oh?" he said, cocking an orbital ridge. "Try me."
"Don't say I didn't warn ya," Ricochet said, his vocals a deep, resonant rumble as he snatched Blurr by the hips and abruptly rolled them, knees digging into the berth as he grabbed and thrust, harsh and deep.
Blurr's backstrut arched, sparks dancing behind his optics as Ricochet's spike ground against his ceiling node, sending a sharp stab of ecstasy through his frame. Fire licked up his backstrut, and Blurr groaned, feet scrabbling at the berth to gain purchase, but Ricochet manipulated his frame as though he weighed nothing, pushing and yanking Blurr onto his spike without pause.
"Gah!" Blurr hissed, and his spike jutted free in a snap. He reached down to wrap his fingers around it, but Ricochet smacked his hand aside.
"Nope. Ya asked for it," Ricochet growled, his visor flaring even brighter.
Blurr squirmed, tried to kick at him. "Frag you!" he snarled.
Ricochet laughed and pulled out, his talons sinking into Blurr's hips. "You've got that backwards, I think," he said, and Blurr's world turned upside down again, his processor spinning and his array throbbing with heat.
He scrabbled to get his hands beneath him as his face smacked into the berth. He sucked in the scent of interfacing, transfluid, lubricant, and then Ricochet surged inside him again, no preamble, nothing gentle about the way he slammed into Blurr, filling him to the hilt.
Blurr groaned and fisted the berth covers, digging his knees into the berth to push back into Ricochet's thrusts. The other mech chuckled darkly and bent over him, blanketing Blurr in his weight, denta latching on the back of Blurr's neck. Ricochet growled, the vibrations echoing through Blurr's sensornet. His hips snapped forward, driving into Blurr without pause, like an animal in rut.
It was perfect.
Blurr panted, dragging in hot ventilations, a dull ache spreading out from the bite and the sharp stab of Ricochet's talons on his hips. He shoved back into each thrust, taking the slams on his sensory nodes, charge erupting in fierce, bursting waves through his array.
Overload crackled over him between one ventilation and the next. Blurr moaned, spike spurting onto the berth beneath him, valve cycling down. He shook as the charge spilled out over his frame in bright bursts of blue.
Ricochet didn't pause.
"I'm not done with you," he growled into Blurr's audial.
"Good," Blurr gasped out.
Ricochet laughed and slammed into him all the harder. His denta left scrapes on Blurr's intake cables. "Mine," he said.
And Blurr, for the life of him, couldn't think of a reason to argue otherwise.
~
Hiding in plain sight was a lot easier than it seemed.
Mechs didn’t pay that much attention to other mechs, especially nowadays, in this post-war, mostly peacetime. If you looked like you belonged, then you belonged. If you didn’t stand out, then no one noticed you.
If you were plain, if you were expected to be there, you might as well be another piece of the scenery.
Jazz knew this all too well.
He swapped out his visor and added a set of false kibble to his face. He reprogrammed his nanites from black and white, to black all over, and tromped through a construction zone to dirty his feet with weld ash, and scrape his armor on rusted bits of old buildings. He walked with a hunch, he worsened his accent, and to everyone else, he was just a tired Cybertronian finally come home, happy to rebuild his planet any way he could.
He sat in a booth in New Maccadam’s with no one the wiser. He cupped a cube of engex and sipped it slowly, carefully, like he wanted to savor it. He watched Springarm come into the bar, ask Bluestreak a few questions, before leaving disappointed. He watched Springarm survey New Maccadam’s, look right at Jazz, then turn around and leave.
Pfft.
Civilian Enforcers were too easy.
Well, most of them anyway.
“I don’t think this is wise,” Bluestreak said as he came by, swapping Jazz’s empty cube for a plate of candied energon jellies. Jazz would make sure to take some back to Ricochet or his brother might actually murder him for real. “They’re going to catch you.”
Jazz snorted. “I ain’t never been caught, Baby Blue. It ain’t about to start now.” He dragged the plate over, noisily chewing on a candy like he’d never been taught manners, like he was the average blue-collar worker who didn’t bother with them. “You seen Sandstorm tonight?”
Bluestreak shook his head. “Haven’t seen a lot of people. Business is down.”
“Damn. The bar’s about the only place a stranger can casually walk up to another person without suspicion.” Jazz frowned and gnawed on the edge of the cube. “You might have to track him down for a talk yourself. What about Mirage?”
Bluestreak faked a gasp, his optics sparkling. “Is that you looking to ask someone for help? Because that’s what it sounds like.”
Jazz scowled. “No. That’s me looking for a frag, since I know you aren’t going to offer, and Blurr’s got my brother wrapped around his finger.”
“Ah. Well, I haven’t seen Mirage. You know New Maccadam’s isn’t his usual scene.”
Bluestreak half-turned, glanced toward the bar, but of the customers in here, no one seemed like they wanted a drink. Jazz hadn’t heard the door ding since Springarm left either. Business really was taking a hit.
Jazz grumbled and shoved another chew into his mouth. “You’re not being helpful at all.”
“I’m precisely as helpful as I want to be.” Bluestreak’s sensory panels twitched, betraying an irritation for the first time Jazz could remember. “And if you’re trying to provoke me, you’ll have to try harder. More energon, sir?”
Jazz leaned back into a slouch. “Maybe later.” He affected the expression of a tired mech who just wanted to go home, crawl into his berth, so he could start the day all over again. Nope. No disguised spies here, no sir.
“I’ll come back and check on you.” Bluestreak gave him a bartender’s smile and wandered away.
Jazz watched his aft. He wished he could do more than look at it. He wished he understood what Bluestreak wanted from him.
He wished for a lot of things.
He supposed he wouldn’t seek out Mirage after all.
***
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.
Life moved on.
Not that there wasn't an uproar.
Ricochet's disappearance and escape made it onto the evening news. Prowl had ensured the media was not specific as to the reasons behind his arrest, which caused a greater outrage from the Decepticons, especially Starscream who was demanding an explanation. At least the surviving Wreckers went back to being cautious, and their guards stuck around them, just in case.
Politically, the situation was a powder keg waiting to explode. It wasn't, however, any of Blurr's business.
He had a bar to run.
He went back to New Maccadam’s, and he went back to work, and he played dumb when anyone came by asking questions. Drift started to park himself on the end of the bar when he knew Blurr was working, nominating himself to take Ricochet's place apparently. Whether or not he was fully aware of Blurr's part in Ricochet's escape, Blurr didn't know.
He chose not to bring it up.
He worked. He went home. Sometimes, Jazz came for him and he was able to sneak down to where Jazz and Ricochet were hiding out, and they bent their heads together over the evidence to try and find the real murderer.
Ricochet's innocence should have been easy to prove.
Except within a week of his escape, another Wrecker was murdered. Fractal died in a fiery explosion, his apartment apparently rigged to ignite as soon as he came home. Another Autobot -- his partner -- died in the blast.
The mechhunt for Ricochet became even fiercer.
“I don’t know how many times I can tell you the same thing,” Blurr said as he cleaned a stack of dirty cubes, if only to give his hands something to do while Springarm stared him down, his lack of expression as unnerving now as it was the last two times he came to ask ‘a few questions.’
“I have no idea where Jazz or Ricochet are. I had nothing to do with his break out. I’m as shocked as anyone else, and in case you’ve forgotten, I’m a Wrecker, too. And he reprogrammed my security system.” Blurr added a scowl for good measure.
“Right.” Springarm’s tone was so flat, Blurr could have held a race on it. “Curious, then, that he hasn’t taken advantage of that knowledge to kill you next.”
Blurr narrowed his optics. “Is that a threat? Because it sounds like one.”
“Of course not. I was making an observation.” Springarm pulled out a datapad and made some kind of notation before he tucked it away. “Thank you for your cooperation in this investigation. If I have any further questions, I know where to find you.”
Blurr scowled at him. “Yeah. Running my bar.”
Springarm nodded with something that only faintly resembled respect. He spun on a heelstrut and strode out of the bar, Blurr glaring holes between his shoulder tires for his entire exit.
Aft.
Once he’d gone, Blurr left the dirty cubes alone and went looking for someone to serve. Not that he had many customers since the Enforcers had come to New Maccadam’s a week ago, arresting Ricochet and bringing Blurr in for questioning. It had been busy at first, according to Bluestreak and Riptide. Mechs had come by for the sheer curiosity of it.
After Ricochet’s escape, however, New Maccadam’s was avoided by the general public. Maybe they feared getting swept up in the investigation or being implicated. Springarm’s frequent visits for “follow-up questioning” didn’t help.
Blurr was not amused. His income suffered, and he still had the possibility of a Wrecker-hating assassin trying to stab, shoot, or explode his aft.
“So you don’t know anything?” Drift asked as Blurr wandered to the end of the bar where Drift had taken up perch, appointing himself Blurr’s guardian for the evening, though he was equally at risk of attack.
“Why would I?” Blurr asked. He reached under the bar and pulled out the box of crumbled rust treats, refilling the bowl in front of Drift.
A grin thanked him. “No reason.” Drift’s orbital ridges rose pointedly. He grabbed a handful of the crisps. “You tell Ricochet about the sparkling before he, you know, escaped?”
“No.” Blurr capped the box and put it back. He glanced through the bar, counting patrons.
“Why not?”
Blurr didn’t have a good answer for that. He counted seven customers, most of whom were regulars, only one of whom he didn’t recognize.
“Because it doesn’t matter if he knows or not. I’m keeping it.”
“You don’t think he has a right to know?” Drift asked, and something in the question felt needling.
Blurr bristled without knowing why. “I think I’m going to close early tonight,” he said instead. “You should go home to Ratchet.”
Drift held up his hands, leaning back from the counter. “Sure you don’t want me to watch your back?”
“I can take care of myself.” As he’d told Jazz from the beginning, so really, this was all Jazz’s fault.
“Of course you can.” Drift grinned and saluted him with a cube. “We’re Wreckers.”
Yes, they were.
Blurr wouldn’t admit to anyone, but Springarm made him twitchy, made him look over his shoulder, taking roundabout routes, and sticking to the shadows. He utilized skills he’d thought he’d forgotten, dipping into an underlevel access far from his usual one, and doubling back on himself just to throw off anyone trailing him.
He should have gone home. It would have been wiser.
He ended up at Jazz and Ricochet’s safehouse instead. He only got lost once, and he tapped the door to announce himself. Ricochet answered, and he gave Blurr a grin that could best be described as sleazy.
“Don’t say anything,” Blurr said as he pushed his way inside and scanned the interior. Washrack door open, washrack empty. Berthroom door open, berthroom empty. “Where’s Jazz?”
“Out.” The door closed and locked. Footsteps barely scuffed the floor before Ricochet’s heat pressed against Blurr’s back, and his ex-vents teased Blurr’s audial. “Why? You wantin’ another twin sandwich?”
Blurr licked his lips. “Not this time.” It had been amazing. It had been processor-blowing. It had been intense. And he didn’t want to wait for Jazz to return to repeat it.
He needed it now.
Hands settled on Blurr’s shoulders, sliding agonizingly slow down his arms. “Jazz’s gonna be jealous that ya just want me,” Ricochet purred as he ex-vented hot and wet over Blurr’s audial. “Maybe I should save him a vid.”
“Or maybe you should stop slagging around and just frag me already,” Blurr growled, though it threatened to devolve into a purr when Ricochet nipped his audial.
Ricochet chuckled on the edge of a growl and rocked against Blurr’s aft, his field dragging heavy against Blurr’s. “I can definitely do that, Speedy.”
Blurr growled. “Stop calling me that,” he said, and swung an elbow around, slamming it into Ricochet’s abdomen.
Ricochet grunted, and backed off, giving Blurr enough room to slip out of his reach. Not with intent to escape, but heading directly toward the berthroom. He didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know that Ricochet was following him, a hunger building in his visor.
The sight of it made Blurr shudder. His valve clenched on nothing, already lubricating, spike starting to pressurize behind his panel. Yes, this was what he wanted. Pleasure. Meaningless. Something that didn’t matter.
The berthroom seemed smaller somehow, even though Jazz wasn’t here this time. It reeked of interfacing, the covers rumpled and twisted. The mental image of Jazz and Ricochet tangled together on the mattress assailed Blurr, and he shivered at the memory of being pressed between them. It sent a hot wave of desire through his frame.
“Gettin’ right to it?” Ricochet asked as he followed Blurr inside, giving the door a half-hearted push toward closing. “I’m down with that.”
“Good.” Blurr turned, snagged Ricochet by the arm and swung him toward the berth. Something he probably shouldn’t have been able to do, but Ricochet humored him, landing on his aft on the berth with a rickety bounce. “Open up.”
An orbital ridge arched as Ricochet pulled himself completely onto the berth, hands braced behind him. He tilted his head. “Plan to frag me? Is that it?”
Blurr clambered onto the berth after him, straddling his thighs. “Something like that. Open.” He dragged his fingers over Ricochet’s panel, the heat of him pushing against Blurr’s derma.
Amusement curved Ricochet's lips. "Sure. I'll go with that." His panel spiraled open, spike jutting out, and he reached toward it.
Blurr flicked his hand away. "No," he said, and bent forward, wrapping his lips around the head of Ricochet's spike, moaning as the taste of Ricochet spilled over his glossa. Primus, he'd forgotten how much he loved to suck spike, though he hadn't wanted to let Ricochet know that.
Fragger was arrogant enough already.
Ricochet's vents stuttered. His hips pushed upward before Blurr grabbed them and shoved down, sliding his lips further onto Ricochet's spike, a pulse of arousal throbbing on his glossa.
"Okay. Yeah. This is good, too," Ricochet groaned and slid a hand around Blurr's head, fingertips stroking his crest. "For a start. Got better ideas than finishin' down yer intake though."
Blurr swallowed around him twice, dragging a hitched vent from Ricochet, before he let Ricochet fall from his mouth, spike glossy with his oral lubricant. "It's not up to you." He licked his lips.
"Is that right?" Ricochet folded his arms behind his head, lips twisted in a smirk. "Well then. Why don't you show me what it is you want, Zippy? Since I'm just a spike to you."
"Don't act offended." Blurr curved his fingers around Ricochet's spike, giving him three squeezing strokes, pulling out a bead of pre-fluid that he immediately lapped up.
Ricochet's visor brightened with arousal. His field throbbed, heavy and full, blanketing Blurr in it. "Maybe I am."
Blurr snorted and rose up, sliding forward, his thighs bracketing Ricochet's spike. "Offended enough for me to leave?" He reached down, aimed Ricochet's spike at his valve, rubbing the head of it against the swollen pleats. Lubricant dripped steadily, his vents coming in sharp pants. "Or do you want me?"
"You're playin' a dangerous game, Speedy." Ricochet's engine growled, his field growing heavier and hotter. "Ya might not like what ya provoke."
Blurr smirked and dropped down, taking Ricochet's spike to the hilt, his internal nodes lighting up with pleasure as he bottomed out. He shuddered, even as he lengthened his smirk. "Oh?" he said, cocking an orbital ridge. "Try me."
"Don't say I didn't warn ya," Ricochet said, his vocals a deep, resonant rumble as he snatched Blurr by the hips and abruptly rolled them, knees digging into the berth as he grabbed and thrust, harsh and deep.
Blurr's backstrut arched, sparks dancing behind his optics as Ricochet's spike ground against his ceiling node, sending a sharp stab of ecstasy through his frame. Fire licked up his backstrut, and Blurr groaned, feet scrabbling at the berth to gain purchase, but Ricochet manipulated his frame as though he weighed nothing, pushing and yanking Blurr onto his spike without pause.
"Gah!" Blurr hissed, and his spike jutted free in a snap. He reached down to wrap his fingers around it, but Ricochet smacked his hand aside.
"Nope. Ya asked for it," Ricochet growled, his visor flaring even brighter.
Blurr squirmed, tried to kick at him. "Frag you!" he snarled.
Ricochet laughed and pulled out, his talons sinking into Blurr's hips. "You've got that backwards, I think," he said, and Blurr's world turned upside down again, his processor spinning and his array throbbing with heat.
He scrabbled to get his hands beneath him as his face smacked into the berth. He sucked in the scent of interfacing, transfluid, lubricant, and then Ricochet surged inside him again, no preamble, nothing gentle about the way he slammed into Blurr, filling him to the hilt.
Blurr groaned and fisted the berth covers, digging his knees into the berth to push back into Ricochet's thrusts. The other mech chuckled darkly and bent over him, blanketing Blurr in his weight, denta latching on the back of Blurr's neck. Ricochet growled, the vibrations echoing through Blurr's sensornet. His hips snapped forward, driving into Blurr without pause, like an animal in rut.
It was perfect.
Blurr panted, dragging in hot ventilations, a dull ache spreading out from the bite and the sharp stab of Ricochet's talons on his hips. He shoved back into each thrust, taking the slams on his sensory nodes, charge erupting in fierce, bursting waves through his array.
Overload crackled over him between one ventilation and the next. Blurr moaned, spike spurting onto the berth beneath him, valve cycling down. He shook as the charge spilled out over his frame in bright bursts of blue.
Ricochet didn't pause.
"I'm not done with you," he growled into Blurr's audial.
"Good," Blurr gasped out.
Ricochet laughed and slammed into him all the harder. His denta left scrapes on Blurr's intake cables. "Mine," he said.
And Blurr, for the life of him, couldn't think of a reason to argue otherwise.
Hiding in plain sight was a lot easier than it seemed.
Mechs didn’t pay that much attention to other mechs, especially nowadays, in this post-war, mostly peacetime. If you looked like you belonged, then you belonged. If you didn’t stand out, then no one noticed you.
If you were plain, if you were expected to be there, you might as well be another piece of the scenery.
Jazz knew this all too well.
He swapped out his visor and added a set of false kibble to his face. He reprogrammed his nanites from black and white, to black all over, and tromped through a construction zone to dirty his feet with weld ash, and scrape his armor on rusted bits of old buildings. He walked with a hunch, he worsened his accent, and to everyone else, he was just a tired Cybertronian finally come home, happy to rebuild his planet any way he could.
He sat in a booth in New Maccadam’s with no one the wiser. He cupped a cube of engex and sipped it slowly, carefully, like he wanted to savor it. He watched Springarm come into the bar, ask Bluestreak a few questions, before leaving disappointed. He watched Springarm survey New Maccadam’s, look right at Jazz, then turn around and leave.
Pfft.
Civilian Enforcers were too easy.
Well, most of them anyway.
“I don’t think this is wise,” Bluestreak said as he came by, swapping Jazz’s empty cube for a plate of candied energon jellies. Jazz would make sure to take some back to Ricochet or his brother might actually murder him for real. “They’re going to catch you.”
Jazz snorted. “I ain’t never been caught, Baby Blue. It ain’t about to start now.” He dragged the plate over, noisily chewing on a candy like he’d never been taught manners, like he was the average blue-collar worker who didn’t bother with them. “You seen Sandstorm tonight?”
Bluestreak shook his head. “Haven’t seen a lot of people. Business is down.”
“Damn. The bar’s about the only place a stranger can casually walk up to another person without suspicion.” Jazz frowned and gnawed on the edge of the cube. “You might have to track him down for a talk yourself. What about Mirage?”
Bluestreak faked a gasp, his optics sparkling. “Is that you looking to ask someone for help? Because that’s what it sounds like.”
Jazz scowled. “No. That’s me looking for a frag, since I know you aren’t going to offer, and Blurr’s got my brother wrapped around his finger.”
“Ah. Well, I haven’t seen Mirage. You know New Maccadam’s isn’t his usual scene.”
Bluestreak half-turned, glanced toward the bar, but of the customers in here, no one seemed like they wanted a drink. Jazz hadn’t heard the door ding since Springarm left either. Business really was taking a hit.
Jazz grumbled and shoved another chew into his mouth. “You’re not being helpful at all.”
“I’m precisely as helpful as I want to be.” Bluestreak’s sensory panels twitched, betraying an irritation for the first time Jazz could remember. “And if you’re trying to provoke me, you’ll have to try harder. More energon, sir?”
Jazz leaned back into a slouch. “Maybe later.” He affected the expression of a tired mech who just wanted to go home, crawl into his berth, so he could start the day all over again. Nope. No disguised spies here, no sir.
“I’ll come back and check on you.” Bluestreak gave him a bartender’s smile and wandered away.
Jazz watched his aft. He wished he could do more than look at it. He wished he understood what Bluestreak wanted from him.
He wished for a lot of things.
He supposed he wouldn’t seek out Mirage after all.
