[IDW] A Perfect Storm 15/16
Jul. 15th, 2019 06:17 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 Fifteen
Jazz didn't wake suffering the consequences of his overindulgence, but he wished he had. Perhaps then Bluestreak would have taken mercy on him, rather than tumbling a handful of datapads into his arms two blinks after he'd onlined and tried to roll over to give Bluestreak a very good morning.
Bluestreak wasn't there.
He'd gotten out of the berth before Jazz. He'd washed up without asking for Jazz's assistance. Now he sat in a chair, sipping on a cube of energon, watching.
"How much do you remember?" he asked. His tone was light, but cautious. His field was nonexistent, held as tightly to his frame as the near-defensive clamp of his armor.
Jazz sat up and scrubbed the sleep from his visor. "Everything."
Bluestreak visibly relaxed. "Good." He stood up, pulling a cube from subspace and handing it to Jazz first, before three datapads hit the berth beside him. "If you're serious, that's where we start."
"What're these?" Jazz set the cube aside and picked up the first datapad. It seemed to be some kind of guide? An interfacing guide? Jazz's draw dropped. "Blue, I'm experienced. I don't need--"
"Yes, you do." Bluestreak sat on the edge of the berth and tapped the datapad. "This is about the kind of relationship you want with me. It's about dominance and submission, about safe and consensual play, about the various kinks and plays. It's a comprehensive overview."
Jazz worked his jaw. He looked at Bluestreak, then the datapad, then Bluestreak again. "I have to read these?"
"I'd like you to."
Jazz sucked on his bottom lip. He skimmed the first few pages. Something in the verbiage was familiar. "Wait. Did you write these?"
"That one, yeah." Bluestreak scrubbed the back of his neck, sensory panels twitching, and for once, he looked like the bashful, young mech a lot of others mistook him for. "It's a summary of the other one, so if you want more details or explanation, go to that one. But I figured I'm more likely to get you to read a shorter version of it." He scrubbed one hand down his thigh. "The last datapad is the contract I'd like to offer, and all the places you can agree, disagree, change, et cetera. But read this one first." He leaned over and tapped the datapad in Jazz's hand.
"Wow." Jazz started a slow smile. It had been ages since he'd heard Bluestreak babble like that, and it was as adorable now as it had been the first time Prowl had introduced them. "Now I feel like an aft."
"Why?"
Jazz set the datapad aside and scooted closer to Bluestreak, reaching out with his field to gently touch Bluestreak's. "Because here I am chasin' after ya like a spark in heat, thinkin' you were just bein' a tease, when the truth is that you were treatin' me like somethin' special, somethin' worth an extra effort."
"Because you are."
Jazz swallowed over a lump in his throat, through a tightness in his vents. "Well, that's debatable." He worked his jaw for a moment. "You know Blurr's sparked, right?"
Bluestreak tilted his head. "I don't know what that has to do with anything, but yeah."
"Could be mine." Jazz shrugged, tried to play it off as something inconsequential, though it was far from it. "Probably Ricochet's, but you know, we're twins, so we'll never really know." He spread his hands. "But that's what I am, Blue. I'm not-- I don't--"
He couldn't find the words. Why was this so fragging hard? Maybe because in the face of Bluestreak's genuine care, he didn't want to let Blue down. He felt like he already had.
"We've been friends a long time." Bluestreak's hand covered his, their fingers tangling together. "I know who you are, and I know what you are, and I decided a long time ago, I wanted you. I don't care if the bitlet might be yours, and I know there are times you won't be with me, because you'll be with Ricochet. I don't want you to change."
Jazz gnawed on his bottom lip, hard enough to taste energon, unable to meet Bluestreak's gaze. "I'm a mess."
"Join the club." Bluestreak laughed quietly, and his field reached out, offering comfort where it slid against Jazz's own. "Look. If you read the datapad and the contract, maybe you'll understand what I want better. But I promise, I only want what you're willing to give me."
Jazz lifted his head, Bluestreak close enough that the heat of their frames mingled. He smelled freshly clean, and Jazz wanted to lick him so much. "What if I wanted a kiss?"
"I can do that."
Jazz's spark throbbed. He put the datapads in his subspace, for later perusal.
"What if I wanted you to touch me?" Jazz rose up on his knees and leaned in, watching Bluestreak's optics get dark and hungry. "What if I wanted you inside me?"
He swung his leg over, straddling Bluestreak before he could convince himself otherwise, his knees hugging Bluestreak's hips.
"Would you give me that?" Jazz asked, his lips inches away from Bluestreak's.
A low growl echoed in Bluestreak's engine. "Yes." He grabbed Jazz's hips, pulled him in until their frames notched together perfectly.
Jazz groaned, his panel jittering in place. He threw his hands over Bluestreak's shoulders, and licked his lips. "Now?"
"No." Bluestreak sighed, and it sounded genuinely disappointed. He shuttered his optics, pressed his forehead to Jazz's. "Primus help me, but not yet. Not until you read the contract and understand.”
Frustration gnawed at him, but Jazz swallowed it down. This was important to Bluestreak, and he didn't want to belittle that.
"A kiss then," Jazz said, because he couldn't resist a push. "You've given me that before."
Bluestreak laughed. "You are going to be impossible to tame," he said before his mouth crashed over Jazz's, the kiss fierce and desperate, tasting of energon and other things.
Jazz moaned and gave into it, opening his mouth to the plunge of Bluestreak's glossa, to the sweep of it inside his mouth as if mapping out the contours and staking claim. It sent sparks shattering across Jazz's sensornet, his spark throbbing with need.
He'd read the damn datapad. He'd read the contract. He'd sign any dotted line Bluestreak put in front of him, so long as he could keep this.
It was all he'd ever wanted.
~
Ricochet moved in.
And then he never left.
Blurr functioned as if he expected the ball to drop at any moment. He waited to come home and find out Ricochet wasn't the family sort, and he didn't want the shackle Blurr had growing in his gestational chamber.
But Ricochet stayed. He started working at the bar which saved Blurr from having to hire another mech. He wasn't much for personality, but he cleaned and mixed engex and bounced rowdy customers and that was enough. For now anyway. Blurr would still need to find someone he trusted to take on a secondary ownership once the sparkling was born.
That solution came to him a few weeks later.
Springer woke from his coma, much to the relief of the entire Wrecker community, and after Whipstrike's death, they all considered it something of a celebration. Blurr's inbox was bombarded with requests to host said celebration at New Maccadam’s, and he couldn't think of a reason to decline. Save that Wreckers tended to be rowdy and noisy and break things when too heavily intoxicated.
Drift offered to sponsor the celebration, out of guilt Blurr suspected, though Whipstrike being triggered by his happiness was hardly his fault. Blurr informed him he'd be billed for broken property. Drift laughed and said, "Is it a party if nothing breaks?"
With that promise, Blurr relented.
He planned the party. He closed New Maccadam’s on a slow night for a private celebration to cut down on the chaos. He gave Riptide the night off, and asked Bluestreak to work with the promise of a bonus. He'd told Ricochet to stay home, go elsewhere, but it didn't stick, and Blurr ended up with a Ricochet-shaped shadow.
He'd done his best to hide his sparking, save from a select few. Jazz knew. Bluestreak knew. Prowl figured it out all on his own. Blurr, however, wasn't ready for the questions and the congratulations and the nosiness. But as time passed, it grew harder to hide the changes to his frame.
He was lithe by design, meant to be light and fast, meant to chart a course and lightning-flash through it. He wasn't built to comfortably carry a growing gestational tank. He started to show, obvious to those who knew, but still enough to hide.
And then it was obvious, and he couldn't hide anymore. Gone were the sleek, sharp lines of his Racer frame. Now he was soft, rounding at the abdomen, internals shifting aside, plating adjusting to accommodate the growing bitlet.
He hated it.
The added weight slowed him down. The swell of his abdomen marked him as vulnerable. He was a mech used to stares and drawing attention, but not for this.
It didn't help that Ricochet strutted around like a mech who'd accomplished something. He acted like sparking Blurr was a badge of honor, and Blurr started wearing his bites in more places than his intake. Staking a claim, he supposed. If he didn't like it so much, he'd protest, but in the heat of the moment, damn if the bites didn't make him go off like a rocket.
Peace-time had dulled the Wreckers. They were still loud and they took up a lot of space, and they tried to drink Blurr's bar dry.
Their rowdiness had calmed, however. They sat around the tables in various clumps, with Springer the mech of honor in the middle, and a pile of id chips nearby -- for all those gone.
There were a lot of chips. Wreckers didn't have a long life expectancy.
"Makes ya wonder, don't it?" Top Spin asked as he spun his cube around and around without spilling a drop. "What other grudge is gonna come out of the woodwork to pick us off."
Blurr didn't want to think about that. It had been a long, long war and there were a lot of grievances on both sides. The treaty had spared the sparks of many a villain, and that hadn't settled well with many victims. But short of reigniting the war, there was no recourse to be had.
They'd all been hurt. They'd survived, for a certain definition of the word.
"We always knew we were on borrowed time," Twin Twist said, and it was with a lazy grin and a sparkle of blue optics as he saluted them all. "Anything post-war is a surprise anyway."
It was a remarkably fatalistic way to view things, but then, Wreckers were meant to be expendable. They weren't meant to survive.
Blurr wondered what that said about himself that he'd signed up for such a team willingly.
"I always heard Wreckers liked to party," Ricochet murmured as he stepped up behind Blurr, his arm going around Blurr's waist, palm cupping the swell of his abdomen. "Guess the stories were a little off." He nuzzled into the side of Blurr's neck, licking over one of the bites he left last night.
Blurr let it go for a few seconds before he squirmed out of Ricochet's hold. He didn't want to call any attention to them.
"This is less of a celebration and more of a wake, I guess," Blurr said. He didn't think that was what the intention had been, but that was the way it turned out.
"Maybe they're just not drunk enough."
Blurr snorted. "Maybe."
“You gonna bring those drinks anytime soon?” Whirl hollered from the furthest table out, waving one hand in wild notice. He seemed pretty happy for a mech who was only out for the day because Cyclonus promised to look out for him.
Said mech, by the way, kept to himself in the corner. He had his own engex, and a datapad and seemed content to keep his distance from the party going on centerstage. Blurr caught him occasionally glancing at Whirl, keeping an optic on him, before he went back to reading.
Cyclonus was a strange, strange mech. His and Whirl’s friendship was even stranger.
Ricochet slid back in against Blurr's back, pressing a kiss to his audial. "Better get a move on, Zippy. Or they’re gonna start stormin’ the castle." He gave Blurr's aft a little pat before he reached on the other side of him to grab the tray, whisking it out from under Blurr’s grip.
Blurr didn’t bother to argue.
“You’ll get them when I say you’ll get them!” Blurr shouted back, but he smiled, completely derailing the irritation he should have offered back.
Drift slid into view, sword rattling on his back, the gem in the hilt giving a quiet hum. Apparently, de-arming in a post-war Cybertron did not include leaving Great Swords at home.
“How’re you doing?” he asked without any preamble, which was his standard greeting here lately.
Guilty waters ran deep, Blurr thought with a sigh. Though Drift had nothing to be guilty about.
“I’m swelling into a balloon, and I’m slower than I’ve ever been in my entire functioning,” Blurr said as he pulled out a meshcloth and idly wiped down an already clean counter. He needed something to do with his hands. “I’ve got an ex-Decepticon living in my apartment and sleeping in my berth, and I still need to find someone to hire before this bitlet decides to show up.”
Drift braced one elbow on the counter and planted his chin on the heel of his hand. “Some of that will solve itself. Ricochet is here to stay, if you ask me. And as for the rest, I might have a solution.”
Blurr lifted an orbital ridge. “I’m listening.”
"Me."
The other orbital ridge lifted. Blurr's hand stilled on the counter. "Say what?"
"I could help," Drift said and braced his elbows on the edge, leaning forward. "It's not like I'm doing anything else, and I think if I keep loitering around the medical center, Ratchet's going to take a restraining order out against me."
Blurr laughed. "You're his conjunx."
"That doesn't mean he likes me constantly underfoot." Drift grinned, with a hint of his pointed denta, and damn if he wasn't charming. "I know how to sling engex. I can learn the rest."
"Yeah, but..." Blurr trailed off, chewing on his bottom lip. He gave Drift a pointed look. They all had their vices. "You don't drink."
Drift rolled his optics. "I don't have to drink to be a bartender. It's not a temptation, I promise." His field tapped Blurr's with sincerity. "I just want to help, that's all. And maybe get out of Ratchet's space before he kills me."
Blurr snorted. "All right. Fine. You really want to work here and deal with being groped and yelled at and all kinds of nosy questions, far be it from me to stop you."
"I'm gonna put an end to that gropin'," Ricochet grumbled as he returned with the tray, this time carefully balancing empty cubes and a plate with nothing but crumbs. "Mechs need to learn to keep their hands to themselves and not be touchin' others without their permission."
"I don't think you have any room to talk," Drift said as his gaze flicked from Blurr to Ricochet and back again. His tone noticeably cooled. He hadn't warmed up to Ricochet yet.
Maybe they'd be friends someday.
Ricochet chuckled and leaned in over Blurr's shoulder, arm encircling and fingers dragging up to toy with a seam. "I have permission," he said and pressed his mouth to Blurr's audial. "Don't I, Speedy?"
"Don't call me that." He jerked an elbow back into Ricochet's chassis, but the other mech twisted out of the way too quickly. Damn spies.
"Blurr! Get your aft over here and join us!" Top Spin shouted above the conversation.
"Stop working for once!" Twin Twist added, and the two brothers grinned, nudging each other with their shoulders.
"Seriously, boss, I can handle this," Bluestreak said as he came out of the back with another bottle of the Sunrise mix which hadn't been appropriately stocked.
Someone had been in too much of a hurry to get to his date last night -- Riptide.
Blurr balled up the meshcloth and tossed it back into the bucket of cleaning solution. "Works for me." He snatched a bottle of his favorite mid-grade and a packet of sweetener. He pointed at Drift. "Tomorrow morning. Bright and early. I'll show you around."
Drift's grin widened into something Blurr had no trouble believing Ratchet couldn't resist. "You got it." He hopped off the stool, saluted them, and swaggered off to join the other Wreckers, everyone crowding around the largest table Blurr had in the bar.
Before Blurr managed two steps, a hand encircled his wrist and reeled him against Ricochet's chassis. "Maybe tell him a little later than sunrise, eh?" Ricochet murmured as he nuzzled into Blurr's intake, glossa flicking over the mark on Blurr's cables. "I got plans for you."
"And what makes you think I'm going to let you do whatever you want?" Blurr asked with a snort. He told himself to pull free of Ricochet's embrace, but his traitorous spark and array wanted to linger, soaking up the warmth and the steady buzz of desire in Ricochet's field.
Ricochet chuckled, dark and wicked. "Because ya haven't turned me down yet." He nipped the curve of Blurr's jaw and pulled back with a smack to Blurr's aft.
Blurr whipped around and glared, but Ricochet was already walking off, lifting a bottle of one of Blurr's cheaper, but stronger engexes and striding out from behind the bar. Beyond him, Bluestreak was studiously not looking at either of them, but there was a smirk curving his lips, and the little twitches of his sensory panels proved he'd been paying attention.
"What?"
"I'm keeping my opinions to myself, boss," Bluestreak said. He flashed Blurr a grin as he dumped the dirtied cups into the washer. "But if you want to hear them, just let me know. Because it's pretty obvious how gone he is over you, and how you're not much different."
"It's convenience," Blurr said, but he wasn't sure he could convince himself of it, much less someone else.
"Sure." Bluestreak tipped his head toward the gathered Wreckers. "Don't you have a party to get to?"
Blurr was surrounded by a bunchy of nosy, busybodies.
He joined the Wreckers, Bluestreak's quiet laugh chasing him out.
~
“Prowl.”
There was only one visitor Prowl would immediately offer his attention to. He marked his place, saved his work, and put down his stylus.
“Yes, Prime?” He looked up without bothering to plant a false smile. Rodimus, for all that he seemed flighty, knew enough to see through it. A part of Prowl wondered if perhaps that knowledge had come along with the Matrix.
Rodimus made a face and swept his hand over his head. “You know I hate it when anyone calls me that.”
“It’s what you are,” Prowl said. He laced his fingers together and folded his hands on the desk. “What can I do for you?”
Rodimus leaned against the door jamb. He kicked one foot up, trying to look casual and cool. He couldn’t come into the office and sit like the average mech, no, he had to be as lackadaisical as possible.
“You’re sure Whipstrike was working alone?” he asked.
Prowl frowned and considered the evidence, what they’d gleaned from searching the remnants of Whipstrike’s apartment, hacking his memory core, and tracking all the datatrails of his net usage. “Yes. Why?”
“Mechs wanna feel safe. I want to be able to tell them they are.”
Prowl’s frown deepened.
He looked up at Rodimus Prime, and for the first time, saw the lines of fatigue in a mech once cheerful and energetic. War had changed him. Then again, war had changed everyone. If anything had changed the mech who used to be Hot Rod, it wasn’t war, it was leadership.
It was a heavy, heavy burden.
Prowl didn’t want to be a leader. He was quite happy being the tactical and technical support. He was content to whisper into the audials of whoever stood as the face of Autobot command. Even if Rodimus Prime leaned more heavily on Kup and Ultra Magnus, Prowl would always be present, in the background, doing the best he could.
“As far as I can tell, Whipstrike was acting alone on a personal vendetta,” Prowl said, carefully choosing his words. “But Prime, it was a long war. I’m sure there are many mechs who carry grudges, who are angry, who don’t feel as though they are being heard… I can’t account for those.”
Rodimus shook his head, flinching at the title given to him. “I know that. You’re not a mind-reader or anything, sheesh.” He twisted his jaw, gaze falling to the floor. “I just wanna make a place where mechs can live and be safe.”
“It’s a fine line, sir,” Prowl said, quietly. “We can be like the old Senate. We can be paranoid and proactive, we can spy on our citizens and try to root out potential threats.”
“No, absolutely not. I don’t want that,” Rodimus said. He straightened, pinning Prowl with a glare. “Tell me you haven’t done it.”
Prowl sat back in his chair. “Of course not.” He’d considered it, for a fraction of a second, because he was weak and Whipstrike was still killing, and at the time, they’d found nothing. “We don’t want to make the same mistakes. We want people to be safe, but we can’t take away their freedom to do it.”
Rodimus nodded slowly, and he looked at Prowl, something firm in his optics. “And is that the same credo you applied to arresting Ricochet?”
“I am not sure what you mean,” Prowl said smoothly, without so much as a flinch. He’d known Jazz had gone to Rodimus, but nothing had happened at the time. He’d been waiting for this. “The evidence--”
“Please don’t feed me the same tripe you’ve fed everyone else. No one believes it but the general public. I’m not that much of an idiot.” Rodimus lifted his orbital ridges. “For the record, your strategy worked, but I don’t want to hear about that kind of thing happening again.”
Prowl pressed his lips together. He knew a chastisement when he saw one, though he appreciated the fact Rodimus had come to him personally rather than issuing a public reprimand.
He tipped his head. “Yes, sir. Understood.”
“Good.” Rodimus cycled a ventilation and unfolded his arms. He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Good talk.” He rapped his knuckles on the doorframe. “Anyway, as you were.” He gestured to Prowl and backed up, out of the door. “Later.”
He left, in much the same casual, unprofessional manner in which he’d first appeared. The door slid shut behind him, closing Prowl back into the contemplative quiet of his office.
It could have been worse.
~
It was Top Spin who made Ricochet snap, not that anyone could tell. He knew better than to make a scene, and he had far more self-control than anyone gave him credit for.
Blurr was a flirt. Blurr was a bartender. Blurr seemed to have no problem with mechs groping him. That was all well and good.
Ricochet didn't like it one bit, but he swallowed the anger, swallowed the urge to haul Top Spin out of his chair and throw him out, swallowed the desire to grab Blurr and kiss him senseless so everyone knew he'd already staked a claim.
He waited until the party was over, until the bar had been cleaned and tidied, and Bluestreak had gone home. He managed to hold it in all the way back to Blurr's apartment, despite the fact he was stupidly charmed by the happiness in Blurr's field, and the sight of Blurr's rounded abdomen, where he couldn't hide that he was carrying a sparkling.
Ricochet's sparkling.
Primus, he still couldn't believe it. After tonight, maybe it was too good to be true, Ricochet didn't know. But things as they stood weren't enough.
He waited until the door shut, until Blurr dropped down into the couch and pouted adorably as he wriggled around in the cushions. "Long day," he grumbled.
"We need to talk," Ricochet said.
Blurr cycled his optics and looked up at him. "What?"
"There’re some things we need ta get straight." Ricochet sat down on the table in front of Blurr, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, holding in the anger.
Blurr frowned. He sat up, optics narrowed. "Oh?"
Ricochet set his jaw. "I ain't leavin," he started, and he knew he had to pick his words carefully, but he didn't know if he had that much control left. "Unless you throw me out of this apartment and tell me you never want to see me again, I ain't leavin'. I'm stayin'. I'm invested. This--" He paused to gesture, to Blurr, to the bitlet, to the apartment. "This is what I want."
"Good to know." Blurr paused, pulled in a slow vent, keeping his field out of reach, so Ricochet couldn't read it. "Was that all?"
Ricochet scowled. "No. Tell me what you want, too."
Blurr huffed. "Why does that matter?"
Ricochet shot to his feet, hands curling into fists. He ventilated to swallow his anger. "Is it that hard to believe maybe I wanna know you want me, too? Maybe I wanna know how much you're investin' in this, too. Or maybe I'm just an annoyin’ block between you and someone else."
"Ah, right. Someone else. I have lots of those." Blurr folded his arms and sat back, glaring up at Ricochet. "I don't remember us ever deciding we were exclusive. Or that we were a 'we'."
"I'm deciding it now," Ricochet said.
Blurr stilled. He sucked in his bottom lip and popped it out again. "You are asking for a commitment?"
"Yes."
Ricochet forced his hands to unclench. He cycled a ventilation. He sat back down. "Yeah, I am," he added. "Except Jazz. You know he's still mine, and I'm still his. I can't help that."
"I'm fine with Jazz," Blurr said, with a dismissive wave. He paused, and his lip curled in a smirk. "So long as that means I can play with him, too, if I want."
"Do I get to watch?" Ricochet moved closer, pinning Blurr between his knees, his hands landing on Blurr's knees before curling around them and lifting, draping Blurr's legs over his thighs. "Maybe we put you between us again, yeah?" He crawled forward, hands sliding up those long, Racer legs to Blurr's hips, his mouth pressing a kiss to Blurr's abdomen. "Both of us in this hungry valve of yours?" One finger circled it, tasting the heat building behind Ricochet's panel.
Blurr's ventilations hitched. His engine made a quiet whine, and his panel opened, allowing Ricochet to slip one finger into the hot slick of him. Blurr's hands found his shoulders, fingers digging in, his field shivering with arousal.
"I think I can live with that," Blurr said, his hips rolling into the slow, steady curls of Ricochet's finger.
"Then we have an accord?" Ricochet murmured, nudging his way to Blurr's intake, teeth grazing over cables warming from the rising arousal in Blurr's frame. The scent of his lubricant filled the space between them. "We're exclusive. You and me. No one else but Jazz."
"You and me," Blurr agreed, and he shuddered, sinking further onto Ricochet's finger, and Ricochet was kind enough to offer a second, while bringing his thumb into play. He circled it around the swelling nub of Blurr's anterior node. "I'm yours."
Ricochet's engine roared. "That's all I wanted to hear."
He closed his mouth over Blurr's. He swallowed the Racer's moan of pleasure, his spark doing twirls and leaps inside his frame, and he'd pick apart what that meant later.
Right now, he had a partner to satisfy, and that deserved every iota of his attention.
****
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.
Jazz didn't wake suffering the consequences of his overindulgence, but he wished he had. Perhaps then Bluestreak would have taken mercy on him, rather than tumbling a handful of datapads into his arms two blinks after he'd onlined and tried to roll over to give Bluestreak a very good morning.
Bluestreak wasn't there.
He'd gotten out of the berth before Jazz. He'd washed up without asking for Jazz's assistance. Now he sat in a chair, sipping on a cube of energon, watching.
"How much do you remember?" he asked. His tone was light, but cautious. His field was nonexistent, held as tightly to his frame as the near-defensive clamp of his armor.
Jazz sat up and scrubbed the sleep from his visor. "Everything."
Bluestreak visibly relaxed. "Good." He stood up, pulling a cube from subspace and handing it to Jazz first, before three datapads hit the berth beside him. "If you're serious, that's where we start."
"What're these?" Jazz set the cube aside and picked up the first datapad. It seemed to be some kind of guide? An interfacing guide? Jazz's draw dropped. "Blue, I'm experienced. I don't need--"
"Yes, you do." Bluestreak sat on the edge of the berth and tapped the datapad. "This is about the kind of relationship you want with me. It's about dominance and submission, about safe and consensual play, about the various kinks and plays. It's a comprehensive overview."
Jazz worked his jaw. He looked at Bluestreak, then the datapad, then Bluestreak again. "I have to read these?"
"I'd like you to."
Jazz sucked on his bottom lip. He skimmed the first few pages. Something in the verbiage was familiar. "Wait. Did you write these?"
"That one, yeah." Bluestreak scrubbed the back of his neck, sensory panels twitching, and for once, he looked like the bashful, young mech a lot of others mistook him for. "It's a summary of the other one, so if you want more details or explanation, go to that one. But I figured I'm more likely to get you to read a shorter version of it." He scrubbed one hand down his thigh. "The last datapad is the contract I'd like to offer, and all the places you can agree, disagree, change, et cetera. But read this one first." He leaned over and tapped the datapad in Jazz's hand.
"Wow." Jazz started a slow smile. It had been ages since he'd heard Bluestreak babble like that, and it was as adorable now as it had been the first time Prowl had introduced them. "Now I feel like an aft."
"Why?"
Jazz set the datapad aside and scooted closer to Bluestreak, reaching out with his field to gently touch Bluestreak's. "Because here I am chasin' after ya like a spark in heat, thinkin' you were just bein' a tease, when the truth is that you were treatin' me like somethin' special, somethin' worth an extra effort."
"Because you are."
Jazz swallowed over a lump in his throat, through a tightness in his vents. "Well, that's debatable." He worked his jaw for a moment. "You know Blurr's sparked, right?"
Bluestreak tilted his head. "I don't know what that has to do with anything, but yeah."
"Could be mine." Jazz shrugged, tried to play it off as something inconsequential, though it was far from it. "Probably Ricochet's, but you know, we're twins, so we'll never really know." He spread his hands. "But that's what I am, Blue. I'm not-- I don't--"
He couldn't find the words. Why was this so fragging hard? Maybe because in the face of Bluestreak's genuine care, he didn't want to let Blue down. He felt like he already had.
"We've been friends a long time." Bluestreak's hand covered his, their fingers tangling together. "I know who you are, and I know what you are, and I decided a long time ago, I wanted you. I don't care if the bitlet might be yours, and I know there are times you won't be with me, because you'll be with Ricochet. I don't want you to change."
Jazz gnawed on his bottom lip, hard enough to taste energon, unable to meet Bluestreak's gaze. "I'm a mess."
"Join the club." Bluestreak laughed quietly, and his field reached out, offering comfort where it slid against Jazz's own. "Look. If you read the datapad and the contract, maybe you'll understand what I want better. But I promise, I only want what you're willing to give me."
Jazz lifted his head, Bluestreak close enough that the heat of their frames mingled. He smelled freshly clean, and Jazz wanted to lick him so much. "What if I wanted a kiss?"
"I can do that."
Jazz's spark throbbed. He put the datapads in his subspace, for later perusal.
"What if I wanted you to touch me?" Jazz rose up on his knees and leaned in, watching Bluestreak's optics get dark and hungry. "What if I wanted you inside me?"
He swung his leg over, straddling Bluestreak before he could convince himself otherwise, his knees hugging Bluestreak's hips.
"Would you give me that?" Jazz asked, his lips inches away from Bluestreak's.
A low growl echoed in Bluestreak's engine. "Yes." He grabbed Jazz's hips, pulled him in until their frames notched together perfectly.
Jazz groaned, his panel jittering in place. He threw his hands over Bluestreak's shoulders, and licked his lips. "Now?"
"No." Bluestreak sighed, and it sounded genuinely disappointed. He shuttered his optics, pressed his forehead to Jazz's. "Primus help me, but not yet. Not until you read the contract and understand.”
Frustration gnawed at him, but Jazz swallowed it down. This was important to Bluestreak, and he didn't want to belittle that.
"A kiss then," Jazz said, because he couldn't resist a push. "You've given me that before."
Bluestreak laughed. "You are going to be impossible to tame," he said before his mouth crashed over Jazz's, the kiss fierce and desperate, tasting of energon and other things.
Jazz moaned and gave into it, opening his mouth to the plunge of Bluestreak's glossa, to the sweep of it inside his mouth as if mapping out the contours and staking claim. It sent sparks shattering across Jazz's sensornet, his spark throbbing with need.
He'd read the damn datapad. He'd read the contract. He'd sign any dotted line Bluestreak put in front of him, so long as he could keep this.
It was all he'd ever wanted.
Ricochet moved in.
And then he never left.
Blurr functioned as if he expected the ball to drop at any moment. He waited to come home and find out Ricochet wasn't the family sort, and he didn't want the shackle Blurr had growing in his gestational chamber.
But Ricochet stayed. He started working at the bar which saved Blurr from having to hire another mech. He wasn't much for personality, but he cleaned and mixed engex and bounced rowdy customers and that was enough. For now anyway. Blurr would still need to find someone he trusted to take on a secondary ownership once the sparkling was born.
That solution came to him a few weeks later.
Springer woke from his coma, much to the relief of the entire Wrecker community, and after Whipstrike's death, they all considered it something of a celebration. Blurr's inbox was bombarded with requests to host said celebration at New Maccadam’s, and he couldn't think of a reason to decline. Save that Wreckers tended to be rowdy and noisy and break things when too heavily intoxicated.
Drift offered to sponsor the celebration, out of guilt Blurr suspected, though Whipstrike being triggered by his happiness was hardly his fault. Blurr informed him he'd be billed for broken property. Drift laughed and said, "Is it a party if nothing breaks?"
With that promise, Blurr relented.
He planned the party. He closed New Maccadam’s on a slow night for a private celebration to cut down on the chaos. He gave Riptide the night off, and asked Bluestreak to work with the promise of a bonus. He'd told Ricochet to stay home, go elsewhere, but it didn't stick, and Blurr ended up with a Ricochet-shaped shadow.
He'd done his best to hide his sparking, save from a select few. Jazz knew. Bluestreak knew. Prowl figured it out all on his own. Blurr, however, wasn't ready for the questions and the congratulations and the nosiness. But as time passed, it grew harder to hide the changes to his frame.
He was lithe by design, meant to be light and fast, meant to chart a course and lightning-flash through it. He wasn't built to comfortably carry a growing gestational tank. He started to show, obvious to those who knew, but still enough to hide.
And then it was obvious, and he couldn't hide anymore. Gone were the sleek, sharp lines of his Racer frame. Now he was soft, rounding at the abdomen, internals shifting aside, plating adjusting to accommodate the growing bitlet.
He hated it.
The added weight slowed him down. The swell of his abdomen marked him as vulnerable. He was a mech used to stares and drawing attention, but not for this.
It didn't help that Ricochet strutted around like a mech who'd accomplished something. He acted like sparking Blurr was a badge of honor, and Blurr started wearing his bites in more places than his intake. Staking a claim, he supposed. If he didn't like it so much, he'd protest, but in the heat of the moment, damn if the bites didn't make him go off like a rocket.
Peace-time had dulled the Wreckers. They were still loud and they took up a lot of space, and they tried to drink Blurr's bar dry.
Their rowdiness had calmed, however. They sat around the tables in various clumps, with Springer the mech of honor in the middle, and a pile of id chips nearby -- for all those gone.
There were a lot of chips. Wreckers didn't have a long life expectancy.
"Makes ya wonder, don't it?" Top Spin asked as he spun his cube around and around without spilling a drop. "What other grudge is gonna come out of the woodwork to pick us off."
Blurr didn't want to think about that. It had been a long, long war and there were a lot of grievances on both sides. The treaty had spared the sparks of many a villain, and that hadn't settled well with many victims. But short of reigniting the war, there was no recourse to be had.
They'd all been hurt. They'd survived, for a certain definition of the word.
"We always knew we were on borrowed time," Twin Twist said, and it was with a lazy grin and a sparkle of blue optics as he saluted them all. "Anything post-war is a surprise anyway."
It was a remarkably fatalistic way to view things, but then, Wreckers were meant to be expendable. They weren't meant to survive.
Blurr wondered what that said about himself that he'd signed up for such a team willingly.
"I always heard Wreckers liked to party," Ricochet murmured as he stepped up behind Blurr, his arm going around Blurr's waist, palm cupping the swell of his abdomen. "Guess the stories were a little off." He nuzzled into the side of Blurr's neck, licking over one of the bites he left last night.
Blurr let it go for a few seconds before he squirmed out of Ricochet's hold. He didn't want to call any attention to them.
"This is less of a celebration and more of a wake, I guess," Blurr said. He didn't think that was what the intention had been, but that was the way it turned out.
"Maybe they're just not drunk enough."
Blurr snorted. "Maybe."
“You gonna bring those drinks anytime soon?” Whirl hollered from the furthest table out, waving one hand in wild notice. He seemed pretty happy for a mech who was only out for the day because Cyclonus promised to look out for him.
Said mech, by the way, kept to himself in the corner. He had his own engex, and a datapad and seemed content to keep his distance from the party going on centerstage. Blurr caught him occasionally glancing at Whirl, keeping an optic on him, before he went back to reading.
Cyclonus was a strange, strange mech. His and Whirl’s friendship was even stranger.
Ricochet slid back in against Blurr's back, pressing a kiss to his audial. "Better get a move on, Zippy. Or they’re gonna start stormin’ the castle." He gave Blurr's aft a little pat before he reached on the other side of him to grab the tray, whisking it out from under Blurr’s grip.
Blurr didn’t bother to argue.
“You’ll get them when I say you’ll get them!” Blurr shouted back, but he smiled, completely derailing the irritation he should have offered back.
Drift slid into view, sword rattling on his back, the gem in the hilt giving a quiet hum. Apparently, de-arming in a post-war Cybertron did not include leaving Great Swords at home.
“How’re you doing?” he asked without any preamble, which was his standard greeting here lately.
Guilty waters ran deep, Blurr thought with a sigh. Though Drift had nothing to be guilty about.
“I’m swelling into a balloon, and I’m slower than I’ve ever been in my entire functioning,” Blurr said as he pulled out a meshcloth and idly wiped down an already clean counter. He needed something to do with his hands. “I’ve got an ex-Decepticon living in my apartment and sleeping in my berth, and I still need to find someone to hire before this bitlet decides to show up.”
Drift braced one elbow on the counter and planted his chin on the heel of his hand. “Some of that will solve itself. Ricochet is here to stay, if you ask me. And as for the rest, I might have a solution.”
Blurr lifted an orbital ridge. “I’m listening.”
"Me."
The other orbital ridge lifted. Blurr's hand stilled on the counter. "Say what?"
"I could help," Drift said and braced his elbows on the edge, leaning forward. "It's not like I'm doing anything else, and I think if I keep loitering around the medical center, Ratchet's going to take a restraining order out against me."
Blurr laughed. "You're his conjunx."
"That doesn't mean he likes me constantly underfoot." Drift grinned, with a hint of his pointed denta, and damn if he wasn't charming. "I know how to sling engex. I can learn the rest."
"Yeah, but..." Blurr trailed off, chewing on his bottom lip. He gave Drift a pointed look. They all had their vices. "You don't drink."
Drift rolled his optics. "I don't have to drink to be a bartender. It's not a temptation, I promise." His field tapped Blurr's with sincerity. "I just want to help, that's all. And maybe get out of Ratchet's space before he kills me."
Blurr snorted. "All right. Fine. You really want to work here and deal with being groped and yelled at and all kinds of nosy questions, far be it from me to stop you."
"I'm gonna put an end to that gropin'," Ricochet grumbled as he returned with the tray, this time carefully balancing empty cubes and a plate with nothing but crumbs. "Mechs need to learn to keep their hands to themselves and not be touchin' others without their permission."
"I don't think you have any room to talk," Drift said as his gaze flicked from Blurr to Ricochet and back again. His tone noticeably cooled. He hadn't warmed up to Ricochet yet.
Maybe they'd be friends someday.
Ricochet chuckled and leaned in over Blurr's shoulder, arm encircling and fingers dragging up to toy with a seam. "I have permission," he said and pressed his mouth to Blurr's audial. "Don't I, Speedy?"
"Don't call me that." He jerked an elbow back into Ricochet's chassis, but the other mech twisted out of the way too quickly. Damn spies.
"Blurr! Get your aft over here and join us!" Top Spin shouted above the conversation.
"Stop working for once!" Twin Twist added, and the two brothers grinned, nudging each other with their shoulders.
"Seriously, boss, I can handle this," Bluestreak said as he came out of the back with another bottle of the Sunrise mix which hadn't been appropriately stocked.
Someone had been in too much of a hurry to get to his date last night -- Riptide.
Blurr balled up the meshcloth and tossed it back into the bucket of cleaning solution. "Works for me." He snatched a bottle of his favorite mid-grade and a packet of sweetener. He pointed at Drift. "Tomorrow morning. Bright and early. I'll show you around."
Drift's grin widened into something Blurr had no trouble believing Ratchet couldn't resist. "You got it." He hopped off the stool, saluted them, and swaggered off to join the other Wreckers, everyone crowding around the largest table Blurr had in the bar.
Before Blurr managed two steps, a hand encircled his wrist and reeled him against Ricochet's chassis. "Maybe tell him a little later than sunrise, eh?" Ricochet murmured as he nuzzled into Blurr's intake, glossa flicking over the mark on Blurr's cables. "I got plans for you."
"And what makes you think I'm going to let you do whatever you want?" Blurr asked with a snort. He told himself to pull free of Ricochet's embrace, but his traitorous spark and array wanted to linger, soaking up the warmth and the steady buzz of desire in Ricochet's field.
Ricochet chuckled, dark and wicked. "Because ya haven't turned me down yet." He nipped the curve of Blurr's jaw and pulled back with a smack to Blurr's aft.
Blurr whipped around and glared, but Ricochet was already walking off, lifting a bottle of one of Blurr's cheaper, but stronger engexes and striding out from behind the bar. Beyond him, Bluestreak was studiously not looking at either of them, but there was a smirk curving his lips, and the little twitches of his sensory panels proved he'd been paying attention.
"What?"
"I'm keeping my opinions to myself, boss," Bluestreak said. He flashed Blurr a grin as he dumped the dirtied cups into the washer. "But if you want to hear them, just let me know. Because it's pretty obvious how gone he is over you, and how you're not much different."
"It's convenience," Blurr said, but he wasn't sure he could convince himself of it, much less someone else.
"Sure." Bluestreak tipped his head toward the gathered Wreckers. "Don't you have a party to get to?"
Blurr was surrounded by a bunchy of nosy, busybodies.
He joined the Wreckers, Bluestreak's quiet laugh chasing him out.
“Prowl.”
There was only one visitor Prowl would immediately offer his attention to. He marked his place, saved his work, and put down his stylus.
“Yes, Prime?” He looked up without bothering to plant a false smile. Rodimus, for all that he seemed flighty, knew enough to see through it. A part of Prowl wondered if perhaps that knowledge had come along with the Matrix.
Rodimus made a face and swept his hand over his head. “You know I hate it when anyone calls me that.”
“It’s what you are,” Prowl said. He laced his fingers together and folded his hands on the desk. “What can I do for you?”
Rodimus leaned against the door jamb. He kicked one foot up, trying to look casual and cool. He couldn’t come into the office and sit like the average mech, no, he had to be as lackadaisical as possible.
“You’re sure Whipstrike was working alone?” he asked.
Prowl frowned and considered the evidence, what they’d gleaned from searching the remnants of Whipstrike’s apartment, hacking his memory core, and tracking all the datatrails of his net usage. “Yes. Why?”
“Mechs wanna feel safe. I want to be able to tell them they are.”
Prowl’s frown deepened.
He looked up at Rodimus Prime, and for the first time, saw the lines of fatigue in a mech once cheerful and energetic. War had changed him. Then again, war had changed everyone. If anything had changed the mech who used to be Hot Rod, it wasn’t war, it was leadership.
It was a heavy, heavy burden.
Prowl didn’t want to be a leader. He was quite happy being the tactical and technical support. He was content to whisper into the audials of whoever stood as the face of Autobot command. Even if Rodimus Prime leaned more heavily on Kup and Ultra Magnus, Prowl would always be present, in the background, doing the best he could.
“As far as I can tell, Whipstrike was acting alone on a personal vendetta,” Prowl said, carefully choosing his words. “But Prime, it was a long war. I’m sure there are many mechs who carry grudges, who are angry, who don’t feel as though they are being heard… I can’t account for those.”
Rodimus shook his head, flinching at the title given to him. “I know that. You’re not a mind-reader or anything, sheesh.” He twisted his jaw, gaze falling to the floor. “I just wanna make a place where mechs can live and be safe.”
“It’s a fine line, sir,” Prowl said, quietly. “We can be like the old Senate. We can be paranoid and proactive, we can spy on our citizens and try to root out potential threats.”
“No, absolutely not. I don’t want that,” Rodimus said. He straightened, pinning Prowl with a glare. “Tell me you haven’t done it.”
Prowl sat back in his chair. “Of course not.” He’d considered it, for a fraction of a second, because he was weak and Whipstrike was still killing, and at the time, they’d found nothing. “We don’t want to make the same mistakes. We want people to be safe, but we can’t take away their freedom to do it.”
Rodimus nodded slowly, and he looked at Prowl, something firm in his optics. “And is that the same credo you applied to arresting Ricochet?”
“I am not sure what you mean,” Prowl said smoothly, without so much as a flinch. He’d known Jazz had gone to Rodimus, but nothing had happened at the time. He’d been waiting for this. “The evidence--”
“Please don’t feed me the same tripe you’ve fed everyone else. No one believes it but the general public. I’m not that much of an idiot.” Rodimus lifted his orbital ridges. “For the record, your strategy worked, but I don’t want to hear about that kind of thing happening again.”
Prowl pressed his lips together. He knew a chastisement when he saw one, though he appreciated the fact Rodimus had come to him personally rather than issuing a public reprimand.
He tipped his head. “Yes, sir. Understood.”
“Good.” Rodimus cycled a ventilation and unfolded his arms. He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Good talk.” He rapped his knuckles on the doorframe. “Anyway, as you were.” He gestured to Prowl and backed up, out of the door. “Later.”
He left, in much the same casual, unprofessional manner in which he’d first appeared. The door slid shut behind him, closing Prowl back into the contemplative quiet of his office.
It could have been worse.
It was Top Spin who made Ricochet snap, not that anyone could tell. He knew better than to make a scene, and he had far more self-control than anyone gave him credit for.
Blurr was a flirt. Blurr was a bartender. Blurr seemed to have no problem with mechs groping him. That was all well and good.
Ricochet didn't like it one bit, but he swallowed the anger, swallowed the urge to haul Top Spin out of his chair and throw him out, swallowed the desire to grab Blurr and kiss him senseless so everyone knew he'd already staked a claim.
He waited until the party was over, until the bar had been cleaned and tidied, and Bluestreak had gone home. He managed to hold it in all the way back to Blurr's apartment, despite the fact he was stupidly charmed by the happiness in Blurr's field, and the sight of Blurr's rounded abdomen, where he couldn't hide that he was carrying a sparkling.
Ricochet's sparkling.
Primus, he still couldn't believe it. After tonight, maybe it was too good to be true, Ricochet didn't know. But things as they stood weren't enough.
He waited until the door shut, until Blurr dropped down into the couch and pouted adorably as he wriggled around in the cushions. "Long day," he grumbled.
"We need to talk," Ricochet said.
Blurr cycled his optics and looked up at him. "What?"
"There’re some things we need ta get straight." Ricochet sat down on the table in front of Blurr, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, holding in the anger.
Blurr frowned. He sat up, optics narrowed. "Oh?"
Ricochet set his jaw. "I ain't leavin," he started, and he knew he had to pick his words carefully, but he didn't know if he had that much control left. "Unless you throw me out of this apartment and tell me you never want to see me again, I ain't leavin'. I'm stayin'. I'm invested. This--" He paused to gesture, to Blurr, to the bitlet, to the apartment. "This is what I want."
"Good to know." Blurr paused, pulled in a slow vent, keeping his field out of reach, so Ricochet couldn't read it. "Was that all?"
Ricochet scowled. "No. Tell me what you want, too."
Blurr huffed. "Why does that matter?"
Ricochet shot to his feet, hands curling into fists. He ventilated to swallow his anger. "Is it that hard to believe maybe I wanna know you want me, too? Maybe I wanna know how much you're investin' in this, too. Or maybe I'm just an annoyin’ block between you and someone else."
"Ah, right. Someone else. I have lots of those." Blurr folded his arms and sat back, glaring up at Ricochet. "I don't remember us ever deciding we were exclusive. Or that we were a 'we'."
"I'm deciding it now," Ricochet said.
Blurr stilled. He sucked in his bottom lip and popped it out again. "You are asking for a commitment?"
"Yes."
Ricochet forced his hands to unclench. He cycled a ventilation. He sat back down. "Yeah, I am," he added. "Except Jazz. You know he's still mine, and I'm still his. I can't help that."
"I'm fine with Jazz," Blurr said, with a dismissive wave. He paused, and his lip curled in a smirk. "So long as that means I can play with him, too, if I want."
"Do I get to watch?" Ricochet moved closer, pinning Blurr between his knees, his hands landing on Blurr's knees before curling around them and lifting, draping Blurr's legs over his thighs. "Maybe we put you between us again, yeah?" He crawled forward, hands sliding up those long, Racer legs to Blurr's hips, his mouth pressing a kiss to Blurr's abdomen. "Both of us in this hungry valve of yours?" One finger circled it, tasting the heat building behind Ricochet's panel.
Blurr's ventilations hitched. His engine made a quiet whine, and his panel opened, allowing Ricochet to slip one finger into the hot slick of him. Blurr's hands found his shoulders, fingers digging in, his field shivering with arousal.
"I think I can live with that," Blurr said, his hips rolling into the slow, steady curls of Ricochet's finger.
"Then we have an accord?" Ricochet murmured, nudging his way to Blurr's intake, teeth grazing over cables warming from the rising arousal in Blurr's frame. The scent of his lubricant filled the space between them. "We're exclusive. You and me. No one else but Jazz."
"You and me," Blurr agreed, and he shuddered, sinking further onto Ricochet's finger, and Ricochet was kind enough to offer a second, while bringing his thumb into play. He circled it around the swelling nub of Blurr's anterior node. "I'm yours."
Ricochet's engine roared. "That's all I wanted to hear."
He closed his mouth over Blurr's. He swallowed the Racer's moan of pleasure, his spark doing twirls and leaps inside his frame, and he'd pick apart what that meant later.
Right now, he had a partner to satisfy, and that deserved every iota of his attention.
