[IDW] A Perfect Storm 14/16
Jul. 8th, 2019 06:31 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 Fourteen
“Whipstrike’s dead, I really didn’t need an escort,” Blurr said as Ricochet trailed him into the apartment, peering over and around his shoulder. Did he expect another assassin to leap out of the shadows?
The stench of paint hit his nasal sensors as the overhead lights flickered on. Blurr gave it a quick glance. He couldn’t tell there’d been a fight at all. The damaged furniture was gone and replaced. His floor and walls had been scrubbed and painted. His security system had been uninstalled, reinstalled, and reprogrammed.
Even the outside hall looked brand new. His neighbors had moved out, but Blurr couldn’t blame them. It was dangerous living next to a Wrecker.
Blurr dropped his crate on the floor and nudged it to the side, out of the way. He’d go through it later. He wasn’t sure he was ready to deal with the supplies inside it.
“This ain’t about needing an escort,” Ricochet said. He had a crate tucked under one arm, not that Blurr had any idea what was in it. “I’m moving in.”
Blurr cycled his optics. He turned toward Ricochet as the door closed behind the other mech. “This is news to me.”
“You think I’m gonna leave ya alone to take care of my sparkling?” Ricochet snorted and strode in as if the apartment was already his, making a beeline for Blurr’s berthroom. “Frag that. I’m gonna do my part, Zippy. I’m in it to win.”
Win what?
Blurr frowned and followed him into the berthroom. Ricochet dropped the crate on the berth and surveyed the space before throwing open the cabinet and shifting things around -- clearing himself a shelf, Blurr realized.
“And if I say no?” Blurr asked.
Ricochet moved from crate to the shelf, carrying some datapads, a polishing kit, a few odds and ends. “Are ya?”
Blurr sucked on his bottom lip. He leaned against the door jamb, folded his arms, watched Ricochet unpack like it was a given. Wondered how someone could say they were moving in when all they had was a crate.
“If it’s for the sparkling, then you can sleep on the couch.” Blurr’s insides twisted and churned, and he wasn’t sure he could identify the reasons why. “Better yet, I’ll get a collapsible berth and set it up in the main room.”
“It’s not just for the sparkling.” Ricochet pulled the last thing out of the crate then popped a button with his elbow, causing it to fold in on itself, until it was small and flat. “I shielded ya before I knew about my bitlet.”
“Because you were supposed to be my bodyguard.”
Ricochet closed the cabinet doors and cocked his head, his expression unreadable. “Ya think I’m so honorable I’d die for a favor?”
That was a trick question. Either Blurr believed him to lack any honor altogether, or he was an honorable mech. Either he did it because he lacked honor but cared for Blurr, or did it because he was a good mech.
No matter how Blurr looked at it, his assessment of Ricochet skewed.
“Yer gonna need help,” Ricochet said without waiting for Blurr to answer. He picked up the folded crate and shoved it under the berth. Blurr would be moving it later. “Runnin’ the bar. Takin’ care of yerself. Watchin’ the sparkling. And I mean to do it.”
Blurr squared his jaw. He hunched his shoulders before letting them sink again. “Since when are you the kind of mech who wants that kind of thing?”
Ricochet took a look around the room before dusting his hands. He closed the distance between them, and Blurr tried to shake off the sensation he was being hunted.
“You make a lot of assumptions for someone who used to be a shallow piece of tinplate,” Ricochet said. He crowded against Blurr, the heat of him unfairly enticing. “You have no idea what I want.”
Blurr lifted his chin. “I can hazard a guess.” He pulled his lips into a smirk, because there was absolutely one thing he was certain Ricochet wanted from him.
Ricochet chuckled, and he rested his hand on Blurr’s hip, fingers curling inward, gripping, a touch possessive. “I’m only transparent in some things.” His other hand curved around Blurr’s jaw, thumb sweeping up and over his bottom lip. “Wanna frag?”
“Seriously?” Blurr’s spark startled, but his array had no such compunctions. It stirred, heating and slicking, his field sizzling where it met Ricochet’s.
“It’s the part we’re good at.” Ricochet cocked his head to the side, and his grin did unfair things to Blurr’s internals.
He unconsciously licked his lips. He leaned into Ricochet’s touch, spark pounding far too fast for his comfort. He wanted to scowl at how easy it was to want Ricochet.
Fine. He didn’t like talking either. The less they talked, the easier it was.
So he unfolded his arms, he grabbed Ricochet, and he yanked him into a kiss, his mouth crashing against Ricochet’s, throwing all ideas of softness out the window. Softness was for emotions Blurr wasn’t supposed to carry for a mech who should only be a fling, not someone Blurr could rely on or keep.
Ricochet growled into his mouth and grabbed Blurr by the waist. He yanked him closer, taking control of the kiss faster than Blurr could blink. His field rose and crashed over Blurr’s, a tidal wave of desire.
Blurr groaned, and Ricochet hefted him like he didn’t weigh a thing, his hands on Blurr’s aft, and Blurr winding his legs around Ricochet’s waist. His valve panel scraped over Ricochet’s spike cover, and Blurr shivered as the vibrations echoed through his array.
He expected to be slammed against the wall, and he’d have been fine with that. Instead, Ricochet whirled them around and dumped Blurr onto the berth, grabbing his hands and pinning them above his head. His bulk trapped Blurr, and it should have frightened him.
His spark raced with delight.
Ricochet stared at him, his field blanketing Blurr’s with intent. Blurr squirmed under that stare, but Ricochet’s weight kept him trapped.
“What?” Blurr demanded, his face heating.
Ricochet broke into a slow grin. “I’m gonna make you scream for me,” he purred, and covered Blurr’s mouth with his own, glossa plunging inside, his hips rocking and grinding down.
Blurr moaned, head tipping back, thighs tightening around Ricochet’s waist. He rocked up to meet Ricochet, the scrape of metal on metal vibrating through his array. His valve heated, lubricant gathering to coat his lining, his spike pulsing a lazy rhythm in its sheath.
The kiss was over too quickly.
Mouth and denta moved on to Blurr’s throat, sucking and biting against his cables, dragging charge from his substructure. Blurr squirmed, but Ricochet’s hands held tight.
Until they didn’t. Until he let go of Blurr’s wrists and grabbed Blurr’s hips instead.
“Open,” he demanded, his voice a heavy growl, his visor a deep, hungry amber.
Blurr’s panel snapped aside, lubricant glistening around the rim. He felt like prey in the gaze of a predator, and there was something in the weight of Ricochet’s gaze. It was different. Not a bad different either.
Blurr shivered.
“I’m not screaming yet,” he challenged, if only to ignore the way his spark was throb-throbbing in his chassis.
“I haven’t gotten started.” Ricochet tightened his grip. He lifted as he held Blurr’s gaze, and his mouth.
Oh, Primus, his mouth.
It fell on Blurr’s valve like he was a treat needing to be devoured. Long, savoring licks. Taut, hot pulls on his anterior node until it felt like the pleasure was being sucked out of Blurr. The pressure of denta around his nub, to the point of pain but never beyond it. Deep, deep curls of Ricochet’s glossa, careful suckles of his rim.
Blurr whimpered. He honest to Primus whimpered and fisted the covers, hips wanting to buck, but caught in Ricochet’s grip. His ankles drummed a rhythm on Ricochet’s back as he gasped.
Ricochet’s mouth latched on his valve, glossa plunging deep, denta scraping roughly over his nub. His valve clenched on nothing, inner nodes desperate for stimulation, while his nub swelled and pulsed, growing hot and needy.
“Please,” Blurr said, hating himself for begging, but hating even more the idea of being left like this, panting and dripping and desperate to be filled.
Ricochet growled and laughed against his valve. He licked, and licked, and licked, the tip of his glossa a fleeting pleasure over Blurr’s nub. He twitched, writhing under the attention, and when Ricochet wrapped his lips around Blurr’s anterior node and sucked, Blurr wailed.
He curled forward, inward, frame thrashing in an overload that seemed to steal his vents, sending a flashfire of electric charge through his lines. His world went static gray, and he might have screamed, he wasn’t sure, because it all whited out to pleasure.
He came back to the berth with Ricochet over him, their fingers interlocked, Ricochet kissing him and tasting like Blurr. His hips worked urgently at Blurr’s, spike slip-sliding in Blurr’s lubricant, and taunting the plump swells of his valve. Ricochet was rigid, throbbing, and his kisses were molten bites of need.
Blurr opened to him, canting his hips upward, and moaning when Ricochet slammed into him, valve still quivering from the remnants of overload. Blurr’s engine roared, and he arched his backstrut, trying to urge Ricochet deeper, ankles crossing behind Ricochet’s back. There was another overload, and he sped toward it like the finish line of a race, hips pumping, vents roaring, cooling fans spinning fast enough to create a friction all their own.
Ricochet’s pleasure rose and crashed around him, battering at the vibrations of Blurr’s field until it found the right harmony. He nosed his way to Blurr’s intake, lips and denta leaving marks behind, as Ricochet always seemed so intent on doing.
“Mine,” Ricochet growled, and the claim in it set Blurr’s spark to racing. “You and the bitlet, Blurr. Mine.”
Blurr squeezed his fingers around Ricochet’s, tightening his thighs, their frames rocking and crashing against the berth. He ought to protest, he knew. He didn’t belong to anyone, especially someone who thought they could lay a claim without asking.
But his spark throbbed without his permission. His frame yielded, valve rippling with intent, inviting Ricochet inside. Pleasure built up inside him again, knotting at the base of his spinal strut, and churning into a coil of relentless need.
Ecstasy snatched him up and tossed him into a storm. Blurr whimpered as it flashed through his frame, setting his sensory net aflame. The hot splash of Ricochet’s overload reignited his lining nodes, peeling another overload from his frame.
Ricochet’s mouth covered his, swallowing the noisy keens threatening to spill free. The kiss was rough, still tasting of Blurr’s own lubricant, but it softened by degrees, as Ricochet gently ground into him, extending Blurr’s overload. His fingers flexed around Blurr’s, his field less a chaotic whirl and more a wrapping warmth.
It was kind of nice.
“Mine,” Ricochet said against his lips.
“You haven’t earned it yet,” Blurr retorted, but he rocked back against Ricochet, their arrays pinging charge between node and sensor, enough to keep a light buzz of arousal steady in his groin.
“Then I will.” Ricochet kissed the corner of his mouth, then the curve of his jaw, glossa following as though he wanted to taste every inch of Blurr. “Though I already know I don’t need to.” He chuckled, the dark purr of it rolling over Blurr.
He nosed into Blurr’s intake, licked over the bites he’d left behind, and Blurr shivered. It was too easy, to fall into this pleasure. Too easy to shutter his optics, moan, and let Ricochet bring him off again. And again. And again.
He pushed away the other thoughts. The reminders that every overload tied him further to Ricochet, tied the bitlet growing inside him to his sire. Every time he took Ricochet into his berth, was another time Blurr didn’t say ‘no’. Was another time he didn’t push Ricochet out of his life like he ought to.
He didn’t want to
He wanted to kiss Ricochet, to roll him over and ride him until an overload left him gasping and exhausted, until the memories of nearly dying in his own apartment fell to the pits of his memory core. He suddenly wanted that perfect family life he’d never before contemplated.
He seriously considered it.
And then he chased the thought away for the morning.He didn’t want to think. He wanted to enjoy.
Right now, that was more than enough.
~
"I think that dark cloud in the corner belongs to you," Riptide said with a non-subtle nudge to Bluestreak's shoulder.
Bluestreak followed the nudge to the darkest, most solitary corner available in New Maccadam’s. Jazz hunched there, back wedged into the corner to allow him the best view of the bar, an array of empty cubes scattered across the table in front of him like fallen soldiers.
What fresh Pit had Ricochet sent him now? And how had Bluestreak not noticed Jazz before? How long had he been here? Why wasn’t he at the medcenter with Blurr and his twin?
Bluestreak sighed, and kept scrubbing the tumblers. "It's almost time to close anyway. Leave him to me. I'll take care of it."
"That's what I was gonna do anyway." Riptide chuckled and grabbed the crate of washed and dried dishes. "Good luck." They rattled as he carried it off to be put away.
There were only a few scattered patrons in the bar. It was very, very late on a busy night. Bluestreak was tired, his feet ached, and someone had gotten a good grope on his sensory panel before Bluestreak could toss him out. He didn't have the mental capacity to deal with the dark cloud building up a storm in the corner.
He couldn't leave Jazz there either.
So he finished the dishes, stacked them for Riptide to stow, and grabbed a meshcloth to wipe down the tables. He waved goodbye to Snarl and Slag, both of whom pinged him a hefty tip, and dug in his archives for a comm code he'd acquired by perhaps illegal means.
"He ain't my problem until he stops bein' yours," was the way Ricochet answered his comm, sounding half-asleep and smug and satisfied.
He was probably in the berth with Blurr. Well, at least someone had a good night.
"Come get him. He's overcharged," Bluestreak said.
"No."
"Ricochet--"
"Look, kid, you two are gratin' on my last bit of patience," Ricochet hissed, and something in his tone suggested he was trying to keep it down.
Bluestreak squared his jaw, though Ricochet couldn't see it. "You can't push him into something he's not ready for."
"I can do whatever the slag I want, he's my twin." Ricochet's anger vibrated through the comm. "I know him better than you ever will. Now I'm givin' you a chance here. Don't screw it up."
The comm went dead.
Subsequent attempts to ping Ricochet were immediately shunted off to his mailbox. Bluestreak suspected Ricochet had done the same thing to any pings from his brother.
He sighed again. He wiped the tables and lifted the chairs so Riptide could activate the auto-vacuum. Riptide escorted out the last few customers and locked the door. He left Jazz to stew in the corner.
Bluestreak cut off the music and dimmed the lights. He sent Riptide over to clear Jazz's table, and was relieved when Jazz surrendered all but his current cube without a fuss. Clearly, Riptide was relieved, too.
Bluestreak restocked. Riptide vacuumed. Jazz didn't pay them any mind, though sometimes Bluestreak caught him watching.
They split the tip pool evenly, and Bluestreak let Riptide go, promising to lock up. He mailed off the days wages and earnings in a report to Blurr's inbox, and girded his metaphorical loins.
Off-shift now, Bluestreak drew himself a cube of mild engex and headed to Jazz's table. There was something intimate about the quiet, the whisper of sound, the dimmed lights. Jazz was almost invisible, his biolights cut to spy-dark and his paint-nanites echoing it.
"How overcharged are you?" Bluestreak asked as he slid into the seat next to Jazz. He reached out with his field, just for a taste, and nearly recoiled at the miasma of indistinguishable emotions boiling under the surface.
"Not overcharged enough." Jazz raised his last cube and took a hearty swig of it. "How's your panel?"
"I've been groped before. I'll live." He shouldn't be surprised Jazz had seen that. Jazz seemed to see everything. Except the obvious. "Don't kill him."
Jazz quirked a grin behind the cube. "Would I do that?"
"Yes."
Jazz snorted and slanted him a look. "Ya know me that well, do ya?"
Bluestreak worked his jaw and finished his engex in a quick swallow. He was tired. His processor ached, and Ricochet just dumped a mess in his lap he wasn't mentally equipped to deal with politely right now.
Jazz was angling for a fight, and Bluestreak knew it.
He stood up, taking his empty cube and grabbing Jazz's half-full one, twisting away before Jazz could snatch it back.
"You're done.” Bluestreak slipped out of the booth, taking both dirtied cubes to be washed. As expected, Jazz gave chase.
"Ya don't get to tell me when I'm done," he snapped.
Bluestreak tumbled the cubes into the sink, hoping they wouldn't break, and whirled, nabbing Jazz's wrist before the fist could make contact. He squeezed, just enough to warn. Jazz wasn't the only dangerous person around here who didn't look like it.
"Yes, I do," Bluestreak said, calm and careful. He tugged until Jazz made contact against him, glaring up at him. "Because that's what you want me to do, only you're too much of a coward to say it. I know it. You know it. Ricochet knows it. That's why he threw you out."
Jazz set his jaw. "You don't know a thing about us." He turned to look away.
Bluestreak snatched his chin with his free hand and forced Jazz to face him. "You look at me when I'm talking to you.” He made his voice firm. Demanding. He spoke like someone used to being obeyed, and expected it.
Jazz visibly and tangibly shivered, the undercurrents of lust in his field pulling to the forefront. He yearned. Bluestreak could practically taste it.
"Tell me I'm wrong," Bluestreak said.
Jazz's silence spoke volumes.
"You can't," Bluestreak continued, and he kept his grip on Jazz's chin, though he let his thumb stroke the curve of Jazz's jaw. Jazz leaned into the touch. "Not without lying, and you know lying to me is useless. A stranger can't lie to me. You don't have an inkling of a chance."
Jazz swallowed. His intake bobbed. His glossa swept over his lips. "Then do it already." His field thickened, hot and clingy. "If you know so much. Stop playin' games. Stop stringin' me along."
"That's not the way this works." Bluestreak leaned in close enough to feel Jazz's ex-vents against his cheek. "You want something, you tell me. That's the rule. I don't take what's not being explicitly offered. I'll give you whatever you want, but you have to ask for it."
Jazz shuddered. Fear wisped through his field.
"I will take you," Bluestreak murmured. He held Jazz's face in both hands now, forcing Jazz to look at him. "I will break you. I will heal you. I will hurt you, and I will soothe you."
Jazz's armor clattered. His visor dimmed. "Blue--"
"I will hold you, I will keep you, I will own you, I will make you mine." Bluestreak stroked his thumbs over Jazz's cheeks, softening his tone but not the command in it. "I will love you. But you have to say it, Jazz. Say it."
The field that struck Bluestreak's was as much a torrent of emotion as it had been before. Jazz's hands drew into fists, his glossa sweeping over his lips again. Words crackled in his intake. Fear swirled a nauseating green beneath it all.
Bluestreak knew the weight of what he was asking for. He did it anyway. That was the only way this could work.
Jazz sucked in an unsteady ventilation. "I..." Static broke his voice apart, and he abruptly grabbed Bluestreak's arms, holding on tight enough to make his armor creak. "I want it, Blue. I want it so much. All of it. All of you. Everything ya said, I want--" He broke off, and held tighter, like it physically pained him. "Blue, please."
"Shhh."
Bluestreak brought their mouths together, lips barely touching before he deepened it into a kiss. He kept it gentle, because he knew Jazz thought it should hurt, and felt Jazz shake in his hold. Being given that much trust should be treated for the fragile, valuable thing it was, and Bluestreak knew better than to tarnish it.
“I hear you,” Bluestreak murmured against his lips, and Jazz shuddered in his arms, a sound like a keen dying in his intake. His field crashed on a shore, and radiated slow curls of relief and desperate hope.
It was a precious gift Bluestreak intended to savor.
"Come on." Bluestreak pressed their foreheads together. "Let's get you home."
"With you?" Jazz's tone edged hope and wickedness.
Bluestreak smiled and pulled back, enough to see the light returning to Jazz's visor. "To recharge," he said. "Nothing else."
"That's not fair," Jazz said, with a quiet sigh, his head tilting into Bluestreak's hand. "You're gonna keep me waitin'?"
"Yes." Bluestreak patted him on the cheek before releasing his hold, gently disengaging Jazz from his arms as well. "Because you've consumed more engex than I'm comfortable with, and the first time I claim you, it's going to be with a clear head from both of us."
Jazz scowled, and it had no business being adorable on a mech who was older than him, more trained, and a noted assassin. But it was.
"I've snuck into enemy bases drunker than this."
"And we're going to talk about how much that worries me." Bluestreak grabbed Jazz's hand, tangling their fingers together. He pushed one cube into Jazz's free hand and carried the other, towing Jazz to first the sink and then to the backdoor, flicking light switches as he passed.
"We're going to negotiate, we're going to discuss, and we're going to have a contract," Bluestreak continued as he urged Jazz out of the door before him. He paused to activate the alarm system with a few quick key presses.
"I don't need a contract," Jazz said with an exasperated huff.
"I do." Bluestreak gave him a stern look. "It's not negotiable. We can always adjust and re-discuss and re-evaluate, but we're going to have a contract, or we have nothing at all."
Jazz folded his arms and set his jaw, his gaze going distant. "Fine." His armor slicked tight to his frame, a sense of discomfort radiating beneath the tentative excitement.
His fear of anything real was not something he'd abandon after a single conversation. Especially not one where both of them were under the influence.
"That's what it takes to be with me, Jazz," Bluestreak said, but he was careful to keep his tone soft, rather than commanding. "I'm not the others. I have a code. I'll never hurt you, except the way you want me to, and only if I fully understand what that entails. I'll stop if you tell me to, and you'd better do it. I want a partnership."
Jazz's engine revved. "That doesn't make any fragging sense. How can you have a partnership when we won't be equal?"
Bluestreak's spark squeezed. "You have a lot of misconceptions about the way this works. And your brother is an aft for not trying to fix that, even if he does have insight into your spark that others don't." He moved closer, crowded into Jazz's space, and was relieved to capture Jazz's full attention with such a little motion.
Jazz's arms dropped. He tilted his chin up, submitting in all but the set of his gaze, defiant and challenging. It brought into full view the mark on his intake, the perfect outline of a set of denta.
It was a reminder.
Bluestreak acknowledged said reminder with a stroke of his finger. Jazz shivered under his fingertip, his field clinging stickily -- needily -- to Bluestreak's. Ricochet had sent him out like this, hungry and unbalanced.
Bluestreak did not approve. He understood why. He wasn't an idiot. But it was quite clear that he and Ricochet had different ideas of what it meant to lead.
"I'm going to tell you a secret," Bluestreak murmured as he stroked that bite and felt Jazz relax by degrees. "I want this to work. I want you. I've wanted you for a long, long time. I want you so much that I want you right, or not at all."
"Primus." Jazz shuddered. He worked his intake. "That's -- That's a lot, Blue. I don't know what to do with all that."
"I'm not asking you to figure it out right now. I'm just letting you know." Bluestreak stroked his intake one more time before he took his hand back. "Come on. You need to recharge and so do I. I've been working all day. I've been groped -- no killing! -- and I've got to come back in the morning and receive the deliveries since I'm pretty sure Blurr's not going to be here to do it."
Jazz peered at him before threading his elbow through Bluestreak’s and tugging him in the direction of Bluestreak’s apartment -- of course he knew where it was. “Are ya sure about the no killin’ part? Because I’m pretty sure no one would miss that slagger.”
Bluestreak laughed, his spark warming from the inside out. “I’m sure.” He lightly touched Jazz’s field with his own. “But still no.”
“Ah, you take the fun out of things.” Jazz chuckled and leaned in closer, his field answering Bluestreak’s with affection. “But I think I’m gonna be okay with that.”
Maybe Bluestreak owed Ricochet a drink after all.
Only time would tell.
***
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.
“Whipstrike’s dead, I really didn’t need an escort,” Blurr said as Ricochet trailed him into the apartment, peering over and around his shoulder. Did he expect another assassin to leap out of the shadows?
The stench of paint hit his nasal sensors as the overhead lights flickered on. Blurr gave it a quick glance. He couldn’t tell there’d been a fight at all. The damaged furniture was gone and replaced. His floor and walls had been scrubbed and painted. His security system had been uninstalled, reinstalled, and reprogrammed.
Even the outside hall looked brand new. His neighbors had moved out, but Blurr couldn’t blame them. It was dangerous living next to a Wrecker.
Blurr dropped his crate on the floor and nudged it to the side, out of the way. He’d go through it later. He wasn’t sure he was ready to deal with the supplies inside it.
“This ain’t about needing an escort,” Ricochet said. He had a crate tucked under one arm, not that Blurr had any idea what was in it. “I’m moving in.”
Blurr cycled his optics. He turned toward Ricochet as the door closed behind the other mech. “This is news to me.”
“You think I’m gonna leave ya alone to take care of my sparkling?” Ricochet snorted and strode in as if the apartment was already his, making a beeline for Blurr’s berthroom. “Frag that. I’m gonna do my part, Zippy. I’m in it to win.”
Win what?
Blurr frowned and followed him into the berthroom. Ricochet dropped the crate on the berth and surveyed the space before throwing open the cabinet and shifting things around -- clearing himself a shelf, Blurr realized.
“And if I say no?” Blurr asked.
Ricochet moved from crate to the shelf, carrying some datapads, a polishing kit, a few odds and ends. “Are ya?”
Blurr sucked on his bottom lip. He leaned against the door jamb, folded his arms, watched Ricochet unpack like it was a given. Wondered how someone could say they were moving in when all they had was a crate.
“If it’s for the sparkling, then you can sleep on the couch.” Blurr’s insides twisted and churned, and he wasn’t sure he could identify the reasons why. “Better yet, I’ll get a collapsible berth and set it up in the main room.”
“It’s not just for the sparkling.” Ricochet pulled the last thing out of the crate then popped a button with his elbow, causing it to fold in on itself, until it was small and flat. “I shielded ya before I knew about my bitlet.”
“Because you were supposed to be my bodyguard.”
Ricochet closed the cabinet doors and cocked his head, his expression unreadable. “Ya think I’m so honorable I’d die for a favor?”
That was a trick question. Either Blurr believed him to lack any honor altogether, or he was an honorable mech. Either he did it because he lacked honor but cared for Blurr, or did it because he was a good mech.
No matter how Blurr looked at it, his assessment of Ricochet skewed.
“Yer gonna need help,” Ricochet said without waiting for Blurr to answer. He picked up the folded crate and shoved it under the berth. Blurr would be moving it later. “Runnin’ the bar. Takin’ care of yerself. Watchin’ the sparkling. And I mean to do it.”
Blurr squared his jaw. He hunched his shoulders before letting them sink again. “Since when are you the kind of mech who wants that kind of thing?”
Ricochet took a look around the room before dusting his hands. He closed the distance between them, and Blurr tried to shake off the sensation he was being hunted.
“You make a lot of assumptions for someone who used to be a shallow piece of tinplate,” Ricochet said. He crowded against Blurr, the heat of him unfairly enticing. “You have no idea what I want.”
Blurr lifted his chin. “I can hazard a guess.” He pulled his lips into a smirk, because there was absolutely one thing he was certain Ricochet wanted from him.
Ricochet chuckled, and he rested his hand on Blurr’s hip, fingers curling inward, gripping, a touch possessive. “I’m only transparent in some things.” His other hand curved around Blurr’s jaw, thumb sweeping up and over his bottom lip. “Wanna frag?”
“Seriously?” Blurr’s spark startled, but his array had no such compunctions. It stirred, heating and slicking, his field sizzling where it met Ricochet’s.
“It’s the part we’re good at.” Ricochet cocked his head to the side, and his grin did unfair things to Blurr’s internals.
He unconsciously licked his lips. He leaned into Ricochet’s touch, spark pounding far too fast for his comfort. He wanted to scowl at how easy it was to want Ricochet.
Fine. He didn’t like talking either. The less they talked, the easier it was.
So he unfolded his arms, he grabbed Ricochet, and he yanked him into a kiss, his mouth crashing against Ricochet’s, throwing all ideas of softness out the window. Softness was for emotions Blurr wasn’t supposed to carry for a mech who should only be a fling, not someone Blurr could rely on or keep.
Ricochet growled into his mouth and grabbed Blurr by the waist. He yanked him closer, taking control of the kiss faster than Blurr could blink. His field rose and crashed over Blurr’s, a tidal wave of desire.
Blurr groaned, and Ricochet hefted him like he didn’t weigh a thing, his hands on Blurr’s aft, and Blurr winding his legs around Ricochet’s waist. His valve panel scraped over Ricochet’s spike cover, and Blurr shivered as the vibrations echoed through his array.
He expected to be slammed against the wall, and he’d have been fine with that. Instead, Ricochet whirled them around and dumped Blurr onto the berth, grabbing his hands and pinning them above his head. His bulk trapped Blurr, and it should have frightened him.
His spark raced with delight.
Ricochet stared at him, his field blanketing Blurr’s with intent. Blurr squirmed under that stare, but Ricochet’s weight kept him trapped.
“What?” Blurr demanded, his face heating.
Ricochet broke into a slow grin. “I’m gonna make you scream for me,” he purred, and covered Blurr’s mouth with his own, glossa plunging inside, his hips rocking and grinding down.
Blurr moaned, head tipping back, thighs tightening around Ricochet’s waist. He rocked up to meet Ricochet, the scrape of metal on metal vibrating through his array. His valve heated, lubricant gathering to coat his lining, his spike pulsing a lazy rhythm in its sheath.
The kiss was over too quickly.
Mouth and denta moved on to Blurr’s throat, sucking and biting against his cables, dragging charge from his substructure. Blurr squirmed, but Ricochet’s hands held tight.
Until they didn’t. Until he let go of Blurr’s wrists and grabbed Blurr’s hips instead.
“Open,” he demanded, his voice a heavy growl, his visor a deep, hungry amber.
Blurr’s panel snapped aside, lubricant glistening around the rim. He felt like prey in the gaze of a predator, and there was something in the weight of Ricochet’s gaze. It was different. Not a bad different either.
Blurr shivered.
“I’m not screaming yet,” he challenged, if only to ignore the way his spark was throb-throbbing in his chassis.
“I haven’t gotten started.” Ricochet tightened his grip. He lifted as he held Blurr’s gaze, and his mouth.
Oh, Primus, his mouth.
It fell on Blurr’s valve like he was a treat needing to be devoured. Long, savoring licks. Taut, hot pulls on his anterior node until it felt like the pleasure was being sucked out of Blurr. The pressure of denta around his nub, to the point of pain but never beyond it. Deep, deep curls of Ricochet’s glossa, careful suckles of his rim.
Blurr whimpered. He honest to Primus whimpered and fisted the covers, hips wanting to buck, but caught in Ricochet’s grip. His ankles drummed a rhythm on Ricochet’s back as he gasped.
Ricochet’s mouth latched on his valve, glossa plunging deep, denta scraping roughly over his nub. His valve clenched on nothing, inner nodes desperate for stimulation, while his nub swelled and pulsed, growing hot and needy.
“Please,” Blurr said, hating himself for begging, but hating even more the idea of being left like this, panting and dripping and desperate to be filled.
Ricochet growled and laughed against his valve. He licked, and licked, and licked, the tip of his glossa a fleeting pleasure over Blurr’s nub. He twitched, writhing under the attention, and when Ricochet wrapped his lips around Blurr’s anterior node and sucked, Blurr wailed.
He curled forward, inward, frame thrashing in an overload that seemed to steal his vents, sending a flashfire of electric charge through his lines. His world went static gray, and he might have screamed, he wasn’t sure, because it all whited out to pleasure.
He came back to the berth with Ricochet over him, their fingers interlocked, Ricochet kissing him and tasting like Blurr. His hips worked urgently at Blurr’s, spike slip-sliding in Blurr’s lubricant, and taunting the plump swells of his valve. Ricochet was rigid, throbbing, and his kisses were molten bites of need.
Blurr opened to him, canting his hips upward, and moaning when Ricochet slammed into him, valve still quivering from the remnants of overload. Blurr’s engine roared, and he arched his backstrut, trying to urge Ricochet deeper, ankles crossing behind Ricochet’s back. There was another overload, and he sped toward it like the finish line of a race, hips pumping, vents roaring, cooling fans spinning fast enough to create a friction all their own.
Ricochet’s pleasure rose and crashed around him, battering at the vibrations of Blurr’s field until it found the right harmony. He nosed his way to Blurr’s intake, lips and denta leaving marks behind, as Ricochet always seemed so intent on doing.
“Mine,” Ricochet growled, and the claim in it set Blurr’s spark to racing. “You and the bitlet, Blurr. Mine.”
Blurr squeezed his fingers around Ricochet’s, tightening his thighs, their frames rocking and crashing against the berth. He ought to protest, he knew. He didn’t belong to anyone, especially someone who thought they could lay a claim without asking.
But his spark throbbed without his permission. His frame yielded, valve rippling with intent, inviting Ricochet inside. Pleasure built up inside him again, knotting at the base of his spinal strut, and churning into a coil of relentless need.
Ecstasy snatched him up and tossed him into a storm. Blurr whimpered as it flashed through his frame, setting his sensory net aflame. The hot splash of Ricochet’s overload reignited his lining nodes, peeling another overload from his frame.
Ricochet’s mouth covered his, swallowing the noisy keens threatening to spill free. The kiss was rough, still tasting of Blurr’s own lubricant, but it softened by degrees, as Ricochet gently ground into him, extending Blurr’s overload. His fingers flexed around Blurr’s, his field less a chaotic whirl and more a wrapping warmth.
It was kind of nice.
“Mine,” Ricochet said against his lips.
“You haven’t earned it yet,” Blurr retorted, but he rocked back against Ricochet, their arrays pinging charge between node and sensor, enough to keep a light buzz of arousal steady in his groin.
“Then I will.” Ricochet kissed the corner of his mouth, then the curve of his jaw, glossa following as though he wanted to taste every inch of Blurr. “Though I already know I don’t need to.” He chuckled, the dark purr of it rolling over Blurr.
He nosed into Blurr’s intake, licked over the bites he’d left behind, and Blurr shivered. It was too easy, to fall into this pleasure. Too easy to shutter his optics, moan, and let Ricochet bring him off again. And again. And again.
He pushed away the other thoughts. The reminders that every overload tied him further to Ricochet, tied the bitlet growing inside him to his sire. Every time he took Ricochet into his berth, was another time Blurr didn’t say ‘no’. Was another time he didn’t push Ricochet out of his life like he ought to.
He didn’t want to
He wanted to kiss Ricochet, to roll him over and ride him until an overload left him gasping and exhausted, until the memories of nearly dying in his own apartment fell to the pits of his memory core. He suddenly wanted that perfect family life he’d never before contemplated.
He seriously considered it.
And then he chased the thought away for the morning.He didn’t want to think. He wanted to enjoy.
Right now, that was more than enough.
"I think that dark cloud in the corner belongs to you," Riptide said with a non-subtle nudge to Bluestreak's shoulder.
Bluestreak followed the nudge to the darkest, most solitary corner available in New Maccadam’s. Jazz hunched there, back wedged into the corner to allow him the best view of the bar, an array of empty cubes scattered across the table in front of him like fallen soldiers.
What fresh Pit had Ricochet sent him now? And how had Bluestreak not noticed Jazz before? How long had he been here? Why wasn’t he at the medcenter with Blurr and his twin?
Bluestreak sighed, and kept scrubbing the tumblers. "It's almost time to close anyway. Leave him to me. I'll take care of it."
"That's what I was gonna do anyway." Riptide chuckled and grabbed the crate of washed and dried dishes. "Good luck." They rattled as he carried it off to be put away.
There were only a few scattered patrons in the bar. It was very, very late on a busy night. Bluestreak was tired, his feet ached, and someone had gotten a good grope on his sensory panel before Bluestreak could toss him out. He didn't have the mental capacity to deal with the dark cloud building up a storm in the corner.
He couldn't leave Jazz there either.
So he finished the dishes, stacked them for Riptide to stow, and grabbed a meshcloth to wipe down the tables. He waved goodbye to Snarl and Slag, both of whom pinged him a hefty tip, and dug in his archives for a comm code he'd acquired by perhaps illegal means.
"He ain't my problem until he stops bein' yours," was the way Ricochet answered his comm, sounding half-asleep and smug and satisfied.
He was probably in the berth with Blurr. Well, at least someone had a good night.
"Come get him. He's overcharged," Bluestreak said.
"No."
"Ricochet--"
"Look, kid, you two are gratin' on my last bit of patience," Ricochet hissed, and something in his tone suggested he was trying to keep it down.
Bluestreak squared his jaw, though Ricochet couldn't see it. "You can't push him into something he's not ready for."
"I can do whatever the slag I want, he's my twin." Ricochet's anger vibrated through the comm. "I know him better than you ever will. Now I'm givin' you a chance here. Don't screw it up."
The comm went dead.
Subsequent attempts to ping Ricochet were immediately shunted off to his mailbox. Bluestreak suspected Ricochet had done the same thing to any pings from his brother.
He sighed again. He wiped the tables and lifted the chairs so Riptide could activate the auto-vacuum. Riptide escorted out the last few customers and locked the door. He left Jazz to stew in the corner.
Bluestreak cut off the music and dimmed the lights. He sent Riptide over to clear Jazz's table, and was relieved when Jazz surrendered all but his current cube without a fuss. Clearly, Riptide was relieved, too.
Bluestreak restocked. Riptide vacuumed. Jazz didn't pay them any mind, though sometimes Bluestreak caught him watching.
They split the tip pool evenly, and Bluestreak let Riptide go, promising to lock up. He mailed off the days wages and earnings in a report to Blurr's inbox, and girded his metaphorical loins.
Off-shift now, Bluestreak drew himself a cube of mild engex and headed to Jazz's table. There was something intimate about the quiet, the whisper of sound, the dimmed lights. Jazz was almost invisible, his biolights cut to spy-dark and his paint-nanites echoing it.
"How overcharged are you?" Bluestreak asked as he slid into the seat next to Jazz. He reached out with his field, just for a taste, and nearly recoiled at the miasma of indistinguishable emotions boiling under the surface.
"Not overcharged enough." Jazz raised his last cube and took a hearty swig of it. "How's your panel?"
"I've been groped before. I'll live." He shouldn't be surprised Jazz had seen that. Jazz seemed to see everything. Except the obvious. "Don't kill him."
Jazz quirked a grin behind the cube. "Would I do that?"
"Yes."
Jazz snorted and slanted him a look. "Ya know me that well, do ya?"
Bluestreak worked his jaw and finished his engex in a quick swallow. He was tired. His processor ached, and Ricochet just dumped a mess in his lap he wasn't mentally equipped to deal with politely right now.
Jazz was angling for a fight, and Bluestreak knew it.
He stood up, taking his empty cube and grabbing Jazz's half-full one, twisting away before Jazz could snatch it back.
"You're done.” Bluestreak slipped out of the booth, taking both dirtied cubes to be washed. As expected, Jazz gave chase.
"Ya don't get to tell me when I'm done," he snapped.
Bluestreak tumbled the cubes into the sink, hoping they wouldn't break, and whirled, nabbing Jazz's wrist before the fist could make contact. He squeezed, just enough to warn. Jazz wasn't the only dangerous person around here who didn't look like it.
"Yes, I do," Bluestreak said, calm and careful. He tugged until Jazz made contact against him, glaring up at him. "Because that's what you want me to do, only you're too much of a coward to say it. I know it. You know it. Ricochet knows it. That's why he threw you out."
Jazz set his jaw. "You don't know a thing about us." He turned to look away.
Bluestreak snatched his chin with his free hand and forced Jazz to face him. "You look at me when I'm talking to you.” He made his voice firm. Demanding. He spoke like someone used to being obeyed, and expected it.
Jazz visibly and tangibly shivered, the undercurrents of lust in his field pulling to the forefront. He yearned. Bluestreak could practically taste it.
"Tell me I'm wrong," Bluestreak said.
Jazz's silence spoke volumes.
"You can't," Bluestreak continued, and he kept his grip on Jazz's chin, though he let his thumb stroke the curve of Jazz's jaw. Jazz leaned into the touch. "Not without lying, and you know lying to me is useless. A stranger can't lie to me. You don't have an inkling of a chance."
Jazz swallowed. His intake bobbed. His glossa swept over his lips. "Then do it already." His field thickened, hot and clingy. "If you know so much. Stop playin' games. Stop stringin' me along."
"That's not the way this works." Bluestreak leaned in close enough to feel Jazz's ex-vents against his cheek. "You want something, you tell me. That's the rule. I don't take what's not being explicitly offered. I'll give you whatever you want, but you have to ask for it."
Jazz shuddered. Fear wisped through his field.
"I will take you," Bluestreak murmured. He held Jazz's face in both hands now, forcing Jazz to look at him. "I will break you. I will heal you. I will hurt you, and I will soothe you."
Jazz's armor clattered. His visor dimmed. "Blue--"
"I will hold you, I will keep you, I will own you, I will make you mine." Bluestreak stroked his thumbs over Jazz's cheeks, softening his tone but not the command in it. "I will love you. But you have to say it, Jazz. Say it."
The field that struck Bluestreak's was as much a torrent of emotion as it had been before. Jazz's hands drew into fists, his glossa sweeping over his lips again. Words crackled in his intake. Fear swirled a nauseating green beneath it all.
Bluestreak knew the weight of what he was asking for. He did it anyway. That was the only way this could work.
Jazz sucked in an unsteady ventilation. "I..." Static broke his voice apart, and he abruptly grabbed Bluestreak's arms, holding on tight enough to make his armor creak. "I want it, Blue. I want it so much. All of it. All of you. Everything ya said, I want--" He broke off, and held tighter, like it physically pained him. "Blue, please."
"Shhh."
Bluestreak brought their mouths together, lips barely touching before he deepened it into a kiss. He kept it gentle, because he knew Jazz thought it should hurt, and felt Jazz shake in his hold. Being given that much trust should be treated for the fragile, valuable thing it was, and Bluestreak knew better than to tarnish it.
“I hear you,” Bluestreak murmured against his lips, and Jazz shuddered in his arms, a sound like a keen dying in his intake. His field crashed on a shore, and radiated slow curls of relief and desperate hope.
It was a precious gift Bluestreak intended to savor.
"Come on." Bluestreak pressed their foreheads together. "Let's get you home."
"With you?" Jazz's tone edged hope and wickedness.
Bluestreak smiled and pulled back, enough to see the light returning to Jazz's visor. "To recharge," he said. "Nothing else."
"That's not fair," Jazz said, with a quiet sigh, his head tilting into Bluestreak's hand. "You're gonna keep me waitin'?"
"Yes." Bluestreak patted him on the cheek before releasing his hold, gently disengaging Jazz from his arms as well. "Because you've consumed more engex than I'm comfortable with, and the first time I claim you, it's going to be with a clear head from both of us."
Jazz scowled, and it had no business being adorable on a mech who was older than him, more trained, and a noted assassin. But it was.
"I've snuck into enemy bases drunker than this."
"And we're going to talk about how much that worries me." Bluestreak grabbed Jazz's hand, tangling their fingers together. He pushed one cube into Jazz's free hand and carried the other, towing Jazz to first the sink and then to the backdoor, flicking light switches as he passed.
"We're going to negotiate, we're going to discuss, and we're going to have a contract," Bluestreak continued as he urged Jazz out of the door before him. He paused to activate the alarm system with a few quick key presses.
"I don't need a contract," Jazz said with an exasperated huff.
"I do." Bluestreak gave him a stern look. "It's not negotiable. We can always adjust and re-discuss and re-evaluate, but we're going to have a contract, or we have nothing at all."
Jazz folded his arms and set his jaw, his gaze going distant. "Fine." His armor slicked tight to his frame, a sense of discomfort radiating beneath the tentative excitement.
His fear of anything real was not something he'd abandon after a single conversation. Especially not one where both of them were under the influence.
"That's what it takes to be with me, Jazz," Bluestreak said, but he was careful to keep his tone soft, rather than commanding. "I'm not the others. I have a code. I'll never hurt you, except the way you want me to, and only if I fully understand what that entails. I'll stop if you tell me to, and you'd better do it. I want a partnership."
Jazz's engine revved. "That doesn't make any fragging sense. How can you have a partnership when we won't be equal?"
Bluestreak's spark squeezed. "You have a lot of misconceptions about the way this works. And your brother is an aft for not trying to fix that, even if he does have insight into your spark that others don't." He moved closer, crowded into Jazz's space, and was relieved to capture Jazz's full attention with such a little motion.
Jazz's arms dropped. He tilted his chin up, submitting in all but the set of his gaze, defiant and challenging. It brought into full view the mark on his intake, the perfect outline of a set of denta.
It was a reminder.
Bluestreak acknowledged said reminder with a stroke of his finger. Jazz shivered under his fingertip, his field clinging stickily -- needily -- to Bluestreak's. Ricochet had sent him out like this, hungry and unbalanced.
Bluestreak did not approve. He understood why. He wasn't an idiot. But it was quite clear that he and Ricochet had different ideas of what it meant to lead.
"I'm going to tell you a secret," Bluestreak murmured as he stroked that bite and felt Jazz relax by degrees. "I want this to work. I want you. I've wanted you for a long, long time. I want you so much that I want you right, or not at all."
"Primus." Jazz shuddered. He worked his intake. "That's -- That's a lot, Blue. I don't know what to do with all that."
"I'm not asking you to figure it out right now. I'm just letting you know." Bluestreak stroked his intake one more time before he took his hand back. "Come on. You need to recharge and so do I. I've been working all day. I've been groped -- no killing! -- and I've got to come back in the morning and receive the deliveries since I'm pretty sure Blurr's not going to be here to do it."
Jazz peered at him before threading his elbow through Bluestreak’s and tugging him in the direction of Bluestreak’s apartment -- of course he knew where it was. “Are ya sure about the no killin’ part? Because I’m pretty sure no one would miss that slagger.”
Bluestreak laughed, his spark warming from the inside out. “I’m sure.” He lightly touched Jazz’s field with his own. “But still no.”
“Ah, you take the fun out of things.” Jazz chuckled and leaned in closer, his field answering Bluestreak’s with affection. “But I think I’m gonna be okay with that.”
Maybe Bluestreak owed Ricochet a drink after all.
Only time would tell.
