[IDW] A Perfect Storm 13/16
Jul. 1st, 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.
A Perfect Storm - Chapter Thirteen
"Here."
Jazz looked at the cube being held out to him. He followed the gray fingers up a gray arm to the person on the end of it, Bluestreak smiling softly down at him.
"Thanks, Blue." Jazz sat up as he accepted the cube, making himself comfortable in the chair. It was like being pulled from a fugue, and he almost shook himself into focus.
Bluestreak sat down beside him, cupping his own cube. "You all right?"
"All things considered? I'm just dandy." Other than the fact he sat the waiting room of the medcenter, waiting for the final word on Blurr and Ricochet. He didn't want to think about the body in the morgue.
Bluestreak nodded slowly, carefully, like someone tiptoeing through a potential minefield. "We solved the case, right?"
"You solved it," Jazz corrected and popped the cap with his thumb, taking a big swig of the energon. He coughed as it bubbled and burned.
Oh, frag. That was engex, not energon. Sneaky, sneaky Blue.
Bluestreak's sensory panels twitched. He looked down at his cube, picking at the fading label on it. "It was a joint effort."
Jazz smiled, though his insides were a twisted, tangled mess of confusion. "We make a pretty good team, yanno."
"I've always thought so." Bluestreak raised his orbital ridges and took a sip of his energon, his sensory panels giving another wiggle.
Jazz huffed a laugh, though it was brief. He drank his engex again, contemplating it.
Soft music played overhead, tinny through the crackling speakers. Tension fizzled in the air, and it wasn't only Jazz’s concern for his brother, or Blurr, or apparently, the sparkling Blurr had in his tank and hadn't seen fit to tell anyone about.
Bluestreak's leg slipped closer, nudging his. "I know you're not in a mindset to talk right now, but if you are, I'm here," he said. "And I don't mean about us, that's a deeper conversation to have. But about anything else, you know. We're friends. Right? Everything else aside."
Jazz’s spark skipped a beat. He buried it behind a long, finishing gulp of his engex. He tucked the empty cube into his subspace, rather than crumple it. “Yeah. ‘Course we’re friends, Blue. You’re one of the best ones I got.”
Bluestreak’s smile made his spark throb all the harder. “Good. Me, too.” He drank from his own cube and picked a little more at the label. “Anyway, I have something, and I’m not sure if it qualifies as good news or bad news.”
Jazz drew down his orbital ridges. “Let me guess, it comes from Prowl.”
“That’s why you’re the smart one.” Bluestreak laughed, genuine, and dipped a hand into his subspace, pulling out a datapad. He tilted it Jazz’s direction. “It’s a copy of the statement he’s releasing to the press tomorrow.”
Ugh.
Jazz accepted the datapad. The device was helpfully keyed in to Prowl’s statement, and Jazz braced himself for all manner of bullshit. Prowl knew how to cover his tracks, how to spin a story, how to narrow the facts down to what the public needed to know and what they didn’t.
Ricochet was absolved, at least. Small favors. Jazz had the feeling Prowl hadn’t been seriously charging him with the crime in the first place. In the aftermath, once the chaos had calmed, Jazz had examined the situation with a keener optic.
Frag Prowl to the Pit and back. Jazz hated it when he was right.
Ricochet wasn’t going to get an apology. He’d be furious. Prowl better watch his back. Jazz wasn’t even going to warn him. Served Prowl right.
Prowl did, at least, finger Whipstrike for the crimes, though his statement indicated Whipstrike had died in the explosion of his apartment, where several Enforcers had also perished. No mention was made of Blurr and Ricochet’s involvement.
Ricochet’s execution, to be fair. Jazz had been the first on scene. He’d counted the explosives his twin had disarmed and left in a little pile. He’d seen the mess of the hallway, the empty apartments, the scorchmarks of laserfire and the ruined remains of Whipstrike’s corpse.
Neither Ricochet nor Blurr had been particularly forthcoming on the details of the encounter, but Jazz could read the violence for himself. Whipstrike didn’t seem the type to surrender, and Ricochet was even less the sort for mercy. That was the leftover Decepticon bits of him.
The blame was landed squarely on Whipstrike. A ‘personal grudge’ to use Prowl’s words, conveniently leaving out the part where a mission given on Prowl’s orders left a mech to die in a Decepticon prison because he wasn’t important enough.
Jazz wasn’t stupid. He knew a little something about hard choices during war. About sacrifices, and weighing one spark against another, and when people could be saved and when they couldn’t. Logically, Prowl’s orders made sense.
The Wreckers were sent to retrieve valuable intel, and if possible, rescue the captives. The ‘if possible’ became an ‘impossible’ when they assessed the circumstances in person. Nuke it all from orbit was the only way to be sure.
It was a good call.
That didn’t make it any easier to swallow.
Jazz sighed and flicked off the datapad before handing it back to Bluestreak. It left him feeling hollow inside. They’d won the war, or at least come to a mutually agreeable conclusion, and sometimes, Jazz wondered if any of them had learned a damned thing.
“I hope he’s not lookin’ for my approval,” Jazz said.
“He doesn’t look for anyone’s approval,” Bluestreak replied, but there was no offense in his tone, just a soft statement of acceptance. “But if he was…?”
“I wish I could disagree.” Jazz leaned back, elbows on the chair, his gaze tracking through the otherwise empty waiting room. The overhead music had switched to another song, even more grating than the first. “I hate that he’s right, like he usually is.”
Jazz licked his lips and cast an askance look at Bluestreak. Something swelled in his chassis, trying to suffocate him. He had words he should say. Ricochet’s chastisement stung at the back of his processor.
“It’s okay,” Bluestreak said. He tilted Jazz a soft smile, like he’d looked right through Jazz, to the shaky core of him, and knew all the right things to say. “We’ll talk later.”
Primus, Jazz wanted to kiss him.
"Yeah," Jazz agreed, hope unfurling in his spark, though he was careful not to let it show. "Soon."
~
Blurr onlined and nothing hurt, which was surprising considering the last thing he remembered was being thrown around by several explosions, and taking a blastershot to the shoulder. He was sure it must have nicked a vent and many important fluid lines. He remembered the distinct, terrible sensation of choking on his own fluids as they pooled in his ventilation system.
He stared up at a fuzzy, blank ceiling, and bright lights glared back at him. The medcenter. There was something unique about the lighting in medical facilities. He hated waking up in medcenters.
"You are surprisingly durable for a Racer."
The shape on his left coalesced into Ricochet, slouched in the chair, bits of temp plating slapped over his armor in garish blotches.
"You've been here the whole time?" Blurr asked and licked his lips, his glossa dry and his mouth like sandpaper.
Ricochet straightened a little and flicked his hands to show his palms. "Bodyguard remember?" He grinned, but it lacked the usual abrasiveness. Or maybe Blurr had just gotten used to it.
Blurr snorted and fumbled for the berth control with the hand he could actually feel, trying to shift it upright. "Threat's down. Don't think that counts anymore."
"Hey. Let me have my excuse, alright?" Ricochet got up and reached across him, flicking his fingers away to activate the berth.
It whined and hissed as it adjusted, inclining gradually. Not that Ricochet leaned back, he stayed disarmingly close, the heat of him buffeting against Blurr's chassis, the scent of him familiar but mingled with weldfire and the bitter tang of temporary sealant.
"Thanks," Blurr muttered.
"All part of the job." Richochet planted his aft on the edge of the berth, hip pressed to Blurr's thigh. "Doc had to go in and do some surgery. S'why ya can't feel your arm yet."
Blurr glanced at his injured shoulder, which was covered in an obscene amount of temp plating, sealant and a smear of nanite gel. "Makes sense." He'd been choking on his own coolant. That was something only surgery could fix.
"Sparkling's fine," Ricochet said with a pointed look. He rested his hand on Blurr's thigh, and Blurr couldn't think of a reason to protest. "He's a tough little spark."
Primus. Blurr didn't want to have this conversation. He knew he needed to, he just didn't want to.
"Look," Blurr said, and stared somewhere over Ricochet's shoulder, at the vidscreen playing silently in the background, subtitles rolling by underneath as the newscaster did his job. "I can do this on my own. I'm not going to ask for anything. I don't need help. And I definitely don't need you sticking around because you feel guilty."
He paused, hesitated, then barreled forward because he might as well lay it all out on the table and finish things now, rather than deal with them later.
"We fragged. It was fun. We had a good time. That's all it was supposed to be. You don't have to look any deeper than that," Blurr finished. He worked his jaw, cycled a ventilation. "I don't want your guilt. All right?"
Ricochet made a noncommittal sound. His hand slid down to Blurr's knee, and he gripped it. Not painfully, but pointedly. "Well, if you're done deciding what I want for me, can I put my two creds in or should I just wait for the payment?"
Blurr cycled his optics. "What?" He jerked his attention to Ricochet and read the anger in the taut line of his jaw, the dark hue of his visor.
"First, yeah, we fragged and it was fun. No, I didn't come into it looking for something serious, but then again, I never do. With Jazz, I figure serious ain't in my future, you get me?" Ricochet asked, his grip firm, and his tone demanding.
Blurr worked his intake and nodded. "I don't care about Jazz."
"Yeah, I know. That's what makes ya so temptin'." Ricochet smirked, and it had an edge of lewd to it. "Now, all that aside, I still dunno if serious is what I want. But I'm not such an idiot that I'm gonna walk away assumin' I don't."
He lifted his other hand and tapped Blurr gently on the abdomen. "That's my sparkling you got in there, or Jazz's but either way, still mine. That is somethin' I'm gonna be serious about no matter what. Like frag I'm gonna be a slag sire like mine was."
Blurr sucked in a slow, steady vent. "So..."
"So what I'm saying is..." Ricochet slid his hand up Blurr's thigh, toward his hips, slow and deliberate. "Can I take ya out to dinner when ya get discharged?"
Blurr's spark throbbed, completely without his consent. "You're serious."
"Damn right I am." Ricochet leaned in closer, his hand skimming up, fingers skating the inside of Blurr's thigh. "I don't like losin' what's mine." His other hand rested on Blurr's clavicle, thumb sweeping inward to brush over the bite he'd left on Blurr however many days ago it had been.
Blurr shivered.
Primus. This was a terrible, horrible idea. Like taking Ricochet to berth the first time, and letting Ricochet crawl under his armor. Like forgetting to make sure his shunt was functional, and thinking ghosts of the war wouldn't come back to haunt him.
Blurr licked his lips again. He hooked his fingers in Ricochet's clavicular strut and yanked him in for a kiss, slamming their mouths together, their denta clacking. Ricochet's fingers curved around Blurr's clavicular strut. His glossa plunged into Blurr’s mouth, tasting of medgrade and terrible, terrible decisions.
Ricochet growled, his hand curving around Blurr's thigh, holding him in place. He deepened the kiss, as if staking a claim, and another shudder ripped over Blurr's frame. His processor spun, heat throbbing through his sensor net, through his spark, pooling in his array.
"I take it that's a yes?" Ricochet asked as he nipped Blurr's lips before pressing a thumb against the underside of his chin, tipping his head back so he could mouth at Blurr's intake and lick over his bites.
Blurr groaned, his thighs parting before he considered it logically, making room for Ricochet's hand to slide further up and brush over his array panel. "We could skip dinner."
Ricochet chuckled against his intake, denta skating over Blurr's cables. "Nope. Dinner is a requirement. I'm a gentlemech."
"Ahem."
Blurr unshuttered his optics -- when had he closed them? -- and glanced toward the door. Ratchet stood in the opening, arms folded, one orbital ridge arched in their direction. His expression was a cross between amused and angry.
"Not in my hospital," Ratchet said. "I don't care if you've made up or not."
Blurr stilled.
Ricochet nipped Blurr's intake before he pulled back, though his hand lingered on Blurr's thigh. "Ya have the worst timing, doc."
"I have the best timing. There'll be no fragging in my medberth, thank you very much." Ratchet came into the room, letting the door shut behind him. "Your brother is looking for you. It might be nice if you gave him an update." He gave Ricochet a pointed look.
"You’re no fun," Ricochet said, but he withdrew his fingers and pushed off the berth, slipping into a long, exaggerated stretch. "I'll be back."
Blurr's glossa flicked over his lips. "Sure."
Ricochet's visor flashed, but if he was going to ask something, he kept it to himself. He strutted past Ratchet with a smirk, and vanished out the door, leaving Blurr and Ratchet alone.
Ratchet dragged his hand down his face and pulled the chair Ricochet had vacated closer to Blurr's berth before dropping down into it. "Primus save me from cocky slaggers."
"You're married to one," Blurr pointed out.
"Don't remind me," Ratchet said with a snort. He pulled out a scanner and aimed it at Blurr. "Look forward to being nannied by him, by the way. He's feeling guilty, like an idiot."
"Why?"
"Because he's an idiot." Ratchet sighed as his scanner beeped, and he peered at the readings, paging through them with quick flicks of his finger. "He'll get over it eventually. In the meantime, he's cleaned your apartment and hired someone to do the repairs, and he's been keeping an optic on your bar, helping out when they're short-handed."
Whoa. It was nice to have one less worry on his shoulders, actually. Blurr wasn't looking forward to trudging home and having a mess to clean up.
"I'll talk to him," Blurr said.
Ratchet made a noncommittal noise and tapped on the scanner's display. "Your self-repair is functioning efficiently. I'll go ahead and take off that sensor block. I think you're good to go home tomorrow."
Blurr sank back into the embrace of the medberth. "What about..?" He gestured to his abdomen pointedly.
"The sparkling? He's fine. Tough little bugger, not that I'm surprised." Ratchet's lip curled, but there was nothing mocking about it. "So I take it you worked things out with Ricochet?"
"I'm not talking about that with you." Blurr side-eyed him. He'd had enough spilling his spark to people today.
"Fair enough." Ratchet stowed the scanner and leaned closer, gently lifting Blurr's numbed arm and connecting to his medical port. It took a moment before Blurr's arm started to tingle as the sensor block fizzled out. "The offer stands."
"Noted." Blurr flexed his fingers, feeling cables tug and pull, and the dull ache of healing in his shoulder. It was going to be tender for weeks.
But it could've been worse, he knew.
A lot worse.
~
Ricochet found Jazz in the waiting room, standing in front of the massive wall-sized window, staring out at the dark grey sky hanging heavy over Autobot City. He had his back to the room, though Ricochet knew he would never be able to catch Jazz unaware. In the reflection of the window, Jazz's visor was dimmed, his mouth set in a thin line.
Ricochet knew that look. He called it Bluestreak. Primus, his brother was an idiot sometimes.
He stepped up behind Jazz -- silent even if he knew it didn't matter -- and slipped his arms around Jazz's frame, tugging him into an embrace. He set his chin atop Jazz's head, one hand splayed over Jazz's abdomen, the other on his bumper, between his headlights.
"Ya fragged him yet?" he asked.
"Shut up."
Ricochet bit the nearest sensory horn. Jazz jerked in his arms, his engine growling. He threw an elbow back, toward Ricochet's side, and Ricochet twisted to avoid it.
"When did you get to be such a coward?" Ricochet asked. He stroked Jazz's bumper, contemplating the polished headlight inches from his fingertips. No fragging in the medberth, Ratchet had said, so did that mean the waiting area was up for grabs?
Jazz huffed. “No one asked your opinion.”
Ricochet flicked his headlight. “Yer gonna get it anyway. What the frag’s yer problem?”
“I need it,” Jazz bit out, and in the window, Ricochet saw his visor cut to the side. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, denta visibly pinning it down before he set it free.
“Hmm.” Ricochet’s flick turned into a caress, his palm cupping Jazz’s headlight and giving it a squeeze.
His brother shivered in his arms, field turning liquid, frame melting into him, his vents blasting a surge of air. He made a sound in his intake, a needy one, that shot straight to Ricochet’s array with a throb of want.
Jazz knew all the right buttons to push.
Fortunately, Ricochet did, too. He slid his other hand down, fingers scraping his array panel with intent.
“Not here,” Jazz said, though he rolled against Ricochet’s fingers, his field screaming with need.
Ricochet mouthed his sensory horn. “There’s a supply closet. Down the hall. First door on the right. Meet you there.” He bit down, hard enough to dent, and then pulled back, strutting away from Jazz, leaving his brother wobbling in front of the window.
Served him right.
Ricochet made for the closet, jimmied the manual lock to let himself inside, and waited. It wasn’t long before Jazz slipped inside, quiet as a ghost, his field clinging and hungry, with an edge of desperation. He forgot, too much, how well Ricochet knew him.
He grabbed Jazz and kissed him, harsh and without pleasantries, eating at his brother’s mouth with the force and claim Jazz wanted. Jazz immediately melted, going pliant under his hands, as Ricochet manipulated Jazz into position.
Facing the back wall, a single light flickering above them, Jazz gripping a tenuous metal shelf stacked with questionable boxes. Ricochet draped against his back, arms around him again, one hand around his intake, the other scraping over his panel.
“Open,” Ricochet demanded.
Jazz obeyed, leaking over Ricochet’s fingers, the tang of his lubricant so thick, Ricochet tasted it on the air. He danced his fingertips over Jazz’s anterior node first, rolling them against the swollen nub, Jazz melting into his arms with a quiet whimper, his field bleeding need.
“You are a coward,” Ricochet said, his voice carefully modded to a low growl, a tone of command, right into Jazz’s audial. “Ya begged me for this, knowin’ I’m not the one ya wanted. I’m feelin’ a little used, bro.”
“That’s not--”
Ricochet bit his sensory horn, sharp enough to leave an imprint of his denta. “I didn’t say ya could speak.” He pinched Jazz’s nub, firm pressure between his fingertips.
A groan tore out of his brother’s intake. He lapsed into silence, clinging to the shelves. Ricochet flexed his fingers, tightened them into a firmer pressure against Jazz’s intake.
“Yer so good at obeyin’ everythin’ else but not this?” Ricochet curled his fingers, sliding them into Jazz’s valve, cupping his palm so that the heel of it ground down on his node cluster.
A whimper rose in Jazz’s intake, buzzing against Ricochet’s palm. He bucked into Ricochet’s hand, throbbing hot and needy.
“I told ya to talk to him, to give in like the both of ya wanted, but instead yer here, comin’ to me.” Ricochet bit his horn again and curved three fingers into Jazz’s valve, hooking them to scrape over the nodecluster inside the rim.
Jazz shuddered, head tipping back, lubricant spilling out and coating Ricochet’s fingers. His field crashed against Ricochet’s and clung stickily, pulsing with building pleasure.
“Usin’ me,” Ricochet hissed.
“No,” Jazz moaned, but it was a lie, Ricochet could taste it. He knew his brother too well. This was a situation festering for too long, and Ricochet was tired of it. Tired of secrets. They’d never done anyone any good.
Look at Whipstrike. Look what festering did for him.
Ricochet squeezed, enough to make a point. No speaking. Jazz fell into silence.
“You will listen to me,” Ricochet said, slowly, carefully, enunciating so as not to drop his glyphs. He stroked and pinched and teased, driving his brother to the edge, but not enough to let him tip. He kept Jazz there, hung on the precipice, dangling. “You will talk to Bluestreak. You will lay your cards on the table.”
He felt Jazz trying to speak, and a squeeze caught Jazz’s vocalizer, fizzling it to static. He leaned harder against his twin. Jazz shuddered, bucked against his hand, and a crackle of static lit under his armor.
Frag that.
Ricochet smacked him, open-palmed to his bared valve, a sharp heat on his anterior node. Jazz jerked, and he turned back into molten heat, sucking in a heavy vent.
“No overloading.” Ricochet cupped Jazz’s array, kept the heel of his hand as a pressure on Jazz’s anterior node. “Listen to me, brother. You’re going to get an answer, one way or another. You hear me? We’re not cowards. We’re not our sire.”
He tilted Jazz’s head further back, got his mouth on the join of neck and shoulder, and clamped down. He bit hard enough to leave a mark, to leave imprints of his denta for anyone to see -- especially Bluestreak.
Jazz was still his. Ricochet shared by choice. Ricochet was offering Bluestreak permission. From one dom to another, he figured Bluestreak would understand. If he didn’t, then he wasn’t the mech Ricochet thought he was, and didn’t deserve Jazz anyway.
Ricochet lapped over the bite before raising his lips to Jazz’s audial. “You’re going to go talk to him. Now. Settle this now.” He rubbed his palm over Jazz’s array, felt him shudder in his arms, and then he let go.
He pulled back, releasing his hold on Jazz’s intake, drawing his hand from his brother’s valve, left him trembling and aching on the precipice of an overload.
“Close your panels,” Ricochet said.
Jazz startled and looked at him over his shoulder, visor streaked white.
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
There was a moment, but the distinct click of a panel sliding shut filled the room. Jazz peeled his fingers from the shelves. He turned toward Ricochet, his expression wrecked and haunted. He looked good enough to eat.
Ricochet grabbed his chin and pulled him into a kiss, his denta leaving marks behind. Something else for Bluestreak to read.
Jazz moaned into the kiss, and chased after him when Ricochet pulled back, but he didn’t relent. He kept his grip on Jazz’s chin, held him firm.
“Go,” he said. “Talk to Bluestreak. Don’t come back to me until you do.”
Jazz’s field flashed, startled. “What?”
“You heard me.” Ricochet let him go, took a step back though there wasn’t much room to be had in the supply closet. “Talk to him. Because yer not gettin’ back in my berth until ya do.”
“Seriously?” Jazz frowned, and his armor jittered. His hands formed fists, his vents coming in sharp gasps, his field carrying the tang of denied overload.
Ricochet gripped him by the upper arm, whirled him toward the door, slammed Jazz’s back against it. His brother’s engine revved, and a moan clawed out the back of his intake. He wanted to be mechhandled.
“Since when am I not?” Ricochet growled. He squeezed, hard enough to make a point, Jazz’s arm creaking. “Get out of here.” He let Jazz go.
He didn’t push Jazz out the door, but he would if he had to.
Jazz glared at him, jaw set, field afuzz with anger and arousal and -- yeah, that was definitely fear in there. Ricochet knew exactly what he was afraid of.
But they weren’t cowards.
“Frag you,” Jazz hissed, and he slammed the door open and stalked out, letting it bang shut behind him.
Primus.
Ricochet groaned and palmed the door, leaning hard against it, his spike popping free not a moment too soon. His hand curled around it, stroking himself in fast, desperate pumps, ecstasy buzzing at the base of his spinal strut.
Blurr in the medcenter and Jazz off to solve things with Bluestreak. He hated taking care of things himself.
He spent against the back of the door, transfluid leaving a spatter in several heavy pulses.
Bah, the sacrifices he made for family.
***
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.
"Here."
Jazz looked at the cube being held out to him. He followed the gray fingers up a gray arm to the person on the end of it, Bluestreak smiling softly down at him.
"Thanks, Blue." Jazz sat up as he accepted the cube, making himself comfortable in the chair. It was like being pulled from a fugue, and he almost shook himself into focus.
Bluestreak sat down beside him, cupping his own cube. "You all right?"
"All things considered? I'm just dandy." Other than the fact he sat the waiting room of the medcenter, waiting for the final word on Blurr and Ricochet. He didn't want to think about the body in the morgue.
Bluestreak nodded slowly, carefully, like someone tiptoeing through a potential minefield. "We solved the case, right?"
"You solved it," Jazz corrected and popped the cap with his thumb, taking a big swig of the energon. He coughed as it bubbled and burned.
Oh, frag. That was engex, not energon. Sneaky, sneaky Blue.
Bluestreak's sensory panels twitched. He looked down at his cube, picking at the fading label on it. "It was a joint effort."
Jazz smiled, though his insides were a twisted, tangled mess of confusion. "We make a pretty good team, yanno."
"I've always thought so." Bluestreak raised his orbital ridges and took a sip of his energon, his sensory panels giving another wiggle.
Jazz huffed a laugh, though it was brief. He drank his engex again, contemplating it.
Soft music played overhead, tinny through the crackling speakers. Tension fizzled in the air, and it wasn't only Jazz’s concern for his brother, or Blurr, or apparently, the sparkling Blurr had in his tank and hadn't seen fit to tell anyone about.
Bluestreak's leg slipped closer, nudging his. "I know you're not in a mindset to talk right now, but if you are, I'm here," he said. "And I don't mean about us, that's a deeper conversation to have. But about anything else, you know. We're friends. Right? Everything else aside."
Jazz’s spark skipped a beat. He buried it behind a long, finishing gulp of his engex. He tucked the empty cube into his subspace, rather than crumple it. “Yeah. ‘Course we’re friends, Blue. You’re one of the best ones I got.”
Bluestreak’s smile made his spark throb all the harder. “Good. Me, too.” He drank from his own cube and picked a little more at the label. “Anyway, I have something, and I’m not sure if it qualifies as good news or bad news.”
Jazz drew down his orbital ridges. “Let me guess, it comes from Prowl.”
“That’s why you’re the smart one.” Bluestreak laughed, genuine, and dipped a hand into his subspace, pulling out a datapad. He tilted it Jazz’s direction. “It’s a copy of the statement he’s releasing to the press tomorrow.”
Ugh.
Jazz accepted the datapad. The device was helpfully keyed in to Prowl’s statement, and Jazz braced himself for all manner of bullshit. Prowl knew how to cover his tracks, how to spin a story, how to narrow the facts down to what the public needed to know and what they didn’t.
Ricochet was absolved, at least. Small favors. Jazz had the feeling Prowl hadn’t been seriously charging him with the crime in the first place. In the aftermath, once the chaos had calmed, Jazz had examined the situation with a keener optic.
Frag Prowl to the Pit and back. Jazz hated it when he was right.
Ricochet wasn’t going to get an apology. He’d be furious. Prowl better watch his back. Jazz wasn’t even going to warn him. Served Prowl right.
Prowl did, at least, finger Whipstrike for the crimes, though his statement indicated Whipstrike had died in the explosion of his apartment, where several Enforcers had also perished. No mention was made of Blurr and Ricochet’s involvement.
Ricochet’s execution, to be fair. Jazz had been the first on scene. He’d counted the explosives his twin had disarmed and left in a little pile. He’d seen the mess of the hallway, the empty apartments, the scorchmarks of laserfire and the ruined remains of Whipstrike’s corpse.
Neither Ricochet nor Blurr had been particularly forthcoming on the details of the encounter, but Jazz could read the violence for himself. Whipstrike didn’t seem the type to surrender, and Ricochet was even less the sort for mercy. That was the leftover Decepticon bits of him.
The blame was landed squarely on Whipstrike. A ‘personal grudge’ to use Prowl’s words, conveniently leaving out the part where a mission given on Prowl’s orders left a mech to die in a Decepticon prison because he wasn’t important enough.
Jazz wasn’t stupid. He knew a little something about hard choices during war. About sacrifices, and weighing one spark against another, and when people could be saved and when they couldn’t. Logically, Prowl’s orders made sense.
The Wreckers were sent to retrieve valuable intel, and if possible, rescue the captives. The ‘if possible’ became an ‘impossible’ when they assessed the circumstances in person. Nuke it all from orbit was the only way to be sure.
It was a good call.
That didn’t make it any easier to swallow.
Jazz sighed and flicked off the datapad before handing it back to Bluestreak. It left him feeling hollow inside. They’d won the war, or at least come to a mutually agreeable conclusion, and sometimes, Jazz wondered if any of them had learned a damned thing.
“I hope he’s not lookin’ for my approval,” Jazz said.
“He doesn’t look for anyone’s approval,” Bluestreak replied, but there was no offense in his tone, just a soft statement of acceptance. “But if he was…?”
“I wish I could disagree.” Jazz leaned back, elbows on the chair, his gaze tracking through the otherwise empty waiting room. The overhead music had switched to another song, even more grating than the first. “I hate that he’s right, like he usually is.”
Jazz licked his lips and cast an askance look at Bluestreak. Something swelled in his chassis, trying to suffocate him. He had words he should say. Ricochet’s chastisement stung at the back of his processor.
“It’s okay,” Bluestreak said. He tilted Jazz a soft smile, like he’d looked right through Jazz, to the shaky core of him, and knew all the right things to say. “We’ll talk later.”
Primus, Jazz wanted to kiss him.
"Yeah," Jazz agreed, hope unfurling in his spark, though he was careful not to let it show. "Soon."
Blurr onlined and nothing hurt, which was surprising considering the last thing he remembered was being thrown around by several explosions, and taking a blastershot to the shoulder. He was sure it must have nicked a vent and many important fluid lines. He remembered the distinct, terrible sensation of choking on his own fluids as they pooled in his ventilation system.
He stared up at a fuzzy, blank ceiling, and bright lights glared back at him. The medcenter. There was something unique about the lighting in medical facilities. He hated waking up in medcenters.
"You are surprisingly durable for a Racer."
The shape on his left coalesced into Ricochet, slouched in the chair, bits of temp plating slapped over his armor in garish blotches.
"You've been here the whole time?" Blurr asked and licked his lips, his glossa dry and his mouth like sandpaper.
Ricochet straightened a little and flicked his hands to show his palms. "Bodyguard remember?" He grinned, but it lacked the usual abrasiveness. Or maybe Blurr had just gotten used to it.
Blurr snorted and fumbled for the berth control with the hand he could actually feel, trying to shift it upright. "Threat's down. Don't think that counts anymore."
"Hey. Let me have my excuse, alright?" Ricochet got up and reached across him, flicking his fingers away to activate the berth.
It whined and hissed as it adjusted, inclining gradually. Not that Ricochet leaned back, he stayed disarmingly close, the heat of him buffeting against Blurr's chassis, the scent of him familiar but mingled with weldfire and the bitter tang of temporary sealant.
"Thanks," Blurr muttered.
"All part of the job." Richochet planted his aft on the edge of the berth, hip pressed to Blurr's thigh. "Doc had to go in and do some surgery. S'why ya can't feel your arm yet."
Blurr glanced at his injured shoulder, which was covered in an obscene amount of temp plating, sealant and a smear of nanite gel. "Makes sense." He'd been choking on his own coolant. That was something only surgery could fix.
"Sparkling's fine," Ricochet said with a pointed look. He rested his hand on Blurr's thigh, and Blurr couldn't think of a reason to protest. "He's a tough little spark."
Primus. Blurr didn't want to have this conversation. He knew he needed to, he just didn't want to.
"Look," Blurr said, and stared somewhere over Ricochet's shoulder, at the vidscreen playing silently in the background, subtitles rolling by underneath as the newscaster did his job. "I can do this on my own. I'm not going to ask for anything. I don't need help. And I definitely don't need you sticking around because you feel guilty."
He paused, hesitated, then barreled forward because he might as well lay it all out on the table and finish things now, rather than deal with them later.
"We fragged. It was fun. We had a good time. That's all it was supposed to be. You don't have to look any deeper than that," Blurr finished. He worked his jaw, cycled a ventilation. "I don't want your guilt. All right?"
Ricochet made a noncommittal sound. His hand slid down to Blurr's knee, and he gripped it. Not painfully, but pointedly. "Well, if you're done deciding what I want for me, can I put my two creds in or should I just wait for the payment?"
Blurr cycled his optics. "What?" He jerked his attention to Ricochet and read the anger in the taut line of his jaw, the dark hue of his visor.
"First, yeah, we fragged and it was fun. No, I didn't come into it looking for something serious, but then again, I never do. With Jazz, I figure serious ain't in my future, you get me?" Ricochet asked, his grip firm, and his tone demanding.
Blurr worked his intake and nodded. "I don't care about Jazz."
"Yeah, I know. That's what makes ya so temptin'." Ricochet smirked, and it had an edge of lewd to it. "Now, all that aside, I still dunno if serious is what I want. But I'm not such an idiot that I'm gonna walk away assumin' I don't."
He lifted his other hand and tapped Blurr gently on the abdomen. "That's my sparkling you got in there, or Jazz's but either way, still mine. That is somethin' I'm gonna be serious about no matter what. Like frag I'm gonna be a slag sire like mine was."
Blurr sucked in a slow, steady vent. "So..."
"So what I'm saying is..." Ricochet slid his hand up Blurr's thigh, toward his hips, slow and deliberate. "Can I take ya out to dinner when ya get discharged?"
Blurr's spark throbbed, completely without his consent. "You're serious."
"Damn right I am." Ricochet leaned in closer, his hand skimming up, fingers skating the inside of Blurr's thigh. "I don't like losin' what's mine." His other hand rested on Blurr's clavicle, thumb sweeping inward to brush over the bite he'd left on Blurr however many days ago it had been.
Blurr shivered.
Primus. This was a terrible, horrible idea. Like taking Ricochet to berth the first time, and letting Ricochet crawl under his armor. Like forgetting to make sure his shunt was functional, and thinking ghosts of the war wouldn't come back to haunt him.
Blurr licked his lips again. He hooked his fingers in Ricochet's clavicular strut and yanked him in for a kiss, slamming their mouths together, their denta clacking. Ricochet's fingers curved around Blurr's clavicular strut. His glossa plunged into Blurr’s mouth, tasting of medgrade and terrible, terrible decisions.
Ricochet growled, his hand curving around Blurr's thigh, holding him in place. He deepened the kiss, as if staking a claim, and another shudder ripped over Blurr's frame. His processor spun, heat throbbing through his sensor net, through his spark, pooling in his array.
"I take it that's a yes?" Ricochet asked as he nipped Blurr's lips before pressing a thumb against the underside of his chin, tipping his head back so he could mouth at Blurr's intake and lick over his bites.
Blurr groaned, his thighs parting before he considered it logically, making room for Ricochet's hand to slide further up and brush over his array panel. "We could skip dinner."
Ricochet chuckled against his intake, denta skating over Blurr's cables. "Nope. Dinner is a requirement. I'm a gentlemech."
"Ahem."
Blurr unshuttered his optics -- when had he closed them? -- and glanced toward the door. Ratchet stood in the opening, arms folded, one orbital ridge arched in their direction. His expression was a cross between amused and angry.
"Not in my hospital," Ratchet said. "I don't care if you've made up or not."
Blurr stilled.
Ricochet nipped Blurr's intake before he pulled back, though his hand lingered on Blurr's thigh. "Ya have the worst timing, doc."
"I have the best timing. There'll be no fragging in my medberth, thank you very much." Ratchet came into the room, letting the door shut behind him. "Your brother is looking for you. It might be nice if you gave him an update." He gave Ricochet a pointed look.
"You’re no fun," Ricochet said, but he withdrew his fingers and pushed off the berth, slipping into a long, exaggerated stretch. "I'll be back."
Blurr's glossa flicked over his lips. "Sure."
Ricochet's visor flashed, but if he was going to ask something, he kept it to himself. He strutted past Ratchet with a smirk, and vanished out the door, leaving Blurr and Ratchet alone.
Ratchet dragged his hand down his face and pulled the chair Ricochet had vacated closer to Blurr's berth before dropping down into it. "Primus save me from cocky slaggers."
"You're married to one," Blurr pointed out.
"Don't remind me," Ratchet said with a snort. He pulled out a scanner and aimed it at Blurr. "Look forward to being nannied by him, by the way. He's feeling guilty, like an idiot."
"Why?"
"Because he's an idiot." Ratchet sighed as his scanner beeped, and he peered at the readings, paging through them with quick flicks of his finger. "He'll get over it eventually. In the meantime, he's cleaned your apartment and hired someone to do the repairs, and he's been keeping an optic on your bar, helping out when they're short-handed."
Whoa. It was nice to have one less worry on his shoulders, actually. Blurr wasn't looking forward to trudging home and having a mess to clean up.
"I'll talk to him," Blurr said.
Ratchet made a noncommittal noise and tapped on the scanner's display. "Your self-repair is functioning efficiently. I'll go ahead and take off that sensor block. I think you're good to go home tomorrow."
Blurr sank back into the embrace of the medberth. "What about..?" He gestured to his abdomen pointedly.
"The sparkling? He's fine. Tough little bugger, not that I'm surprised." Ratchet's lip curled, but there was nothing mocking about it. "So I take it you worked things out with Ricochet?"
"I'm not talking about that with you." Blurr side-eyed him. He'd had enough spilling his spark to people today.
"Fair enough." Ratchet stowed the scanner and leaned closer, gently lifting Blurr's numbed arm and connecting to his medical port. It took a moment before Blurr's arm started to tingle as the sensor block fizzled out. "The offer stands."
"Noted." Blurr flexed his fingers, feeling cables tug and pull, and the dull ache of healing in his shoulder. It was going to be tender for weeks.
But it could've been worse, he knew.
A lot worse.
Ricochet found Jazz in the waiting room, standing in front of the massive wall-sized window, staring out at the dark grey sky hanging heavy over Autobot City. He had his back to the room, though Ricochet knew he would never be able to catch Jazz unaware. In the reflection of the window, Jazz's visor was dimmed, his mouth set in a thin line.
Ricochet knew that look. He called it Bluestreak. Primus, his brother was an idiot sometimes.
He stepped up behind Jazz -- silent even if he knew it didn't matter -- and slipped his arms around Jazz's frame, tugging him into an embrace. He set his chin atop Jazz's head, one hand splayed over Jazz's abdomen, the other on his bumper, between his headlights.
"Ya fragged him yet?" he asked.
"Shut up."
Ricochet bit the nearest sensory horn. Jazz jerked in his arms, his engine growling. He threw an elbow back, toward Ricochet's side, and Ricochet twisted to avoid it.
"When did you get to be such a coward?" Ricochet asked. He stroked Jazz's bumper, contemplating the polished headlight inches from his fingertips. No fragging in the medberth, Ratchet had said, so did that mean the waiting area was up for grabs?
Jazz huffed. “No one asked your opinion.”
Ricochet flicked his headlight. “Yer gonna get it anyway. What the frag’s yer problem?”
“I need it,” Jazz bit out, and in the window, Ricochet saw his visor cut to the side. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, denta visibly pinning it down before he set it free.
“Hmm.” Ricochet’s flick turned into a caress, his palm cupping Jazz’s headlight and giving it a squeeze.
His brother shivered in his arms, field turning liquid, frame melting into him, his vents blasting a surge of air. He made a sound in his intake, a needy one, that shot straight to Ricochet’s array with a throb of want.
Jazz knew all the right buttons to push.
Fortunately, Ricochet did, too. He slid his other hand down, fingers scraping his array panel with intent.
“Not here,” Jazz said, though he rolled against Ricochet’s fingers, his field screaming with need.
Ricochet mouthed his sensory horn. “There’s a supply closet. Down the hall. First door on the right. Meet you there.” He bit down, hard enough to dent, and then pulled back, strutting away from Jazz, leaving his brother wobbling in front of the window.
Served him right.
Ricochet made for the closet, jimmied the manual lock to let himself inside, and waited. It wasn’t long before Jazz slipped inside, quiet as a ghost, his field clinging and hungry, with an edge of desperation. He forgot, too much, how well Ricochet knew him.
He grabbed Jazz and kissed him, harsh and without pleasantries, eating at his brother’s mouth with the force and claim Jazz wanted. Jazz immediately melted, going pliant under his hands, as Ricochet manipulated Jazz into position.
Facing the back wall, a single light flickering above them, Jazz gripping a tenuous metal shelf stacked with questionable boxes. Ricochet draped against his back, arms around him again, one hand around his intake, the other scraping over his panel.
“Open,” Ricochet demanded.
Jazz obeyed, leaking over Ricochet’s fingers, the tang of his lubricant so thick, Ricochet tasted it on the air. He danced his fingertips over Jazz’s anterior node first, rolling them against the swollen nub, Jazz melting into his arms with a quiet whimper, his field bleeding need.
“You are a coward,” Ricochet said, his voice carefully modded to a low growl, a tone of command, right into Jazz’s audial. “Ya begged me for this, knowin’ I’m not the one ya wanted. I’m feelin’ a little used, bro.”
“That’s not--”
Ricochet bit his sensory horn, sharp enough to leave an imprint of his denta. “I didn’t say ya could speak.” He pinched Jazz’s nub, firm pressure between his fingertips.
A groan tore out of his brother’s intake. He lapsed into silence, clinging to the shelves. Ricochet flexed his fingers, tightened them into a firmer pressure against Jazz’s intake.
“Yer so good at obeyin’ everythin’ else but not this?” Ricochet curled his fingers, sliding them into Jazz’s valve, cupping his palm so that the heel of it ground down on his node cluster.
A whimper rose in Jazz’s intake, buzzing against Ricochet’s palm. He bucked into Ricochet’s hand, throbbing hot and needy.
“I told ya to talk to him, to give in like the both of ya wanted, but instead yer here, comin’ to me.” Ricochet bit his horn again and curved three fingers into Jazz’s valve, hooking them to scrape over the nodecluster inside the rim.
Jazz shuddered, head tipping back, lubricant spilling out and coating Ricochet’s fingers. His field crashed against Ricochet’s and clung stickily, pulsing with building pleasure.
“Usin’ me,” Ricochet hissed.
“No,” Jazz moaned, but it was a lie, Ricochet could taste it. He knew his brother too well. This was a situation festering for too long, and Ricochet was tired of it. Tired of secrets. They’d never done anyone any good.
Look at Whipstrike. Look what festering did for him.
Ricochet squeezed, enough to make a point. No speaking. Jazz fell into silence.
“You will listen to me,” Ricochet said, slowly, carefully, enunciating so as not to drop his glyphs. He stroked and pinched and teased, driving his brother to the edge, but not enough to let him tip. He kept Jazz there, hung on the precipice, dangling. “You will talk to Bluestreak. You will lay your cards on the table.”
He felt Jazz trying to speak, and a squeeze caught Jazz’s vocalizer, fizzling it to static. He leaned harder against his twin. Jazz shuddered, bucked against his hand, and a crackle of static lit under his armor.
Frag that.
Ricochet smacked him, open-palmed to his bared valve, a sharp heat on his anterior node. Jazz jerked, and he turned back into molten heat, sucking in a heavy vent.
“No overloading.” Ricochet cupped Jazz’s array, kept the heel of his hand as a pressure on Jazz’s anterior node. “Listen to me, brother. You’re going to get an answer, one way or another. You hear me? We’re not cowards. We’re not our sire.”
He tilted Jazz’s head further back, got his mouth on the join of neck and shoulder, and clamped down. He bit hard enough to leave a mark, to leave imprints of his denta for anyone to see -- especially Bluestreak.
Jazz was still his. Ricochet shared by choice. Ricochet was offering Bluestreak permission. From one dom to another, he figured Bluestreak would understand. If he didn’t, then he wasn’t the mech Ricochet thought he was, and didn’t deserve Jazz anyway.
Ricochet lapped over the bite before raising his lips to Jazz’s audial. “You’re going to go talk to him. Now. Settle this now.” He rubbed his palm over Jazz’s array, felt him shudder in his arms, and then he let go.
He pulled back, releasing his hold on Jazz’s intake, drawing his hand from his brother’s valve, left him trembling and aching on the precipice of an overload.
“Close your panels,” Ricochet said.
Jazz startled and looked at him over his shoulder, visor streaked white.
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
There was a moment, but the distinct click of a panel sliding shut filled the room. Jazz peeled his fingers from the shelves. He turned toward Ricochet, his expression wrecked and haunted. He looked good enough to eat.
Ricochet grabbed his chin and pulled him into a kiss, his denta leaving marks behind. Something else for Bluestreak to read.
Jazz moaned into the kiss, and chased after him when Ricochet pulled back, but he didn’t relent. He kept his grip on Jazz’s chin, held him firm.
“Go,” he said. “Talk to Bluestreak. Don’t come back to me until you do.”
Jazz’s field flashed, startled. “What?”
“You heard me.” Ricochet let him go, took a step back though there wasn’t much room to be had in the supply closet. “Talk to him. Because yer not gettin’ back in my berth until ya do.”
“Seriously?” Jazz frowned, and his armor jittered. His hands formed fists, his vents coming in sharp gasps, his field carrying the tang of denied overload.
Ricochet gripped him by the upper arm, whirled him toward the door, slammed Jazz’s back against it. His brother’s engine revved, and a moan clawed out the back of his intake. He wanted to be mechhandled.
“Since when am I not?” Ricochet growled. He squeezed, hard enough to make a point, Jazz’s arm creaking. “Get out of here.” He let Jazz go.
He didn’t push Jazz out the door, but he would if he had to.
Jazz glared at him, jaw set, field afuzz with anger and arousal and -- yeah, that was definitely fear in there. Ricochet knew exactly what he was afraid of.
But they weren’t cowards.
“Frag you,” Jazz hissed, and he slammed the door open and stalked out, letting it bang shut behind him.
Primus.
Ricochet groaned and palmed the door, leaning hard against it, his spike popping free not a moment too soon. His hand curled around it, stroking himself in fast, desperate pumps, ecstasy buzzing at the base of his spinal strut.
Blurr in the medcenter and Jazz off to solve things with Bluestreak. He hated taking care of things himself.
He spent against the back of the door, transfluid leaving a spatter in several heavy pulses.
Bah, the sacrifices he made for family.
