[IDW] A Perfect Storm 16/16
Jul. 22nd, 2019 06:19 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 Sixteen
Eventually, things settled.
Post-war Cybertron was a Cybertron used to war and violence and danger. The fervor peaked around the time Prowl announced the perpetrator and his subsequent death. Murmurs lingered as mechs created their own wild theories, but eventually, everyone went back to their mundane lives, and Prowl could focus on the things that really mattered.
He finished his reports on time, shuttling them off to Rodimus where they’d sit on the corner of the Prime’s desk collecting dust, until Ultra Magnus planted Rodimus Prime in his chair, one hand firmly on his shoulder, and told him to ‘sit’. Rodimus would pout for however long it took for Ultra Magnus to bring him a big cube of his favorite drink, and then he’d sit down and get to work.
Afterward, he’d vanish to ‘discuss the current state of affairs’ with the Decepticon Emperor or whatever fancy title Starscream had given himself these days, and more connections would be made. The peace treaty would further cement itself, and Cybertron would ventilate a little easier knowing it was that much further from devolving back into war.
It took careful planning. It took even more careful tugging on a few strings here, a mention there, movement of pieces on a gameboard.
Prowl was not a bad mech.
He was an intelligent one, perhaps devastatingly so. He was only doing what he’d been taught to do, what he’d been sparked to do.
He was making Cybertron a better place, no matter what it took. He ensured a safe home for every Cybertronian on the planet.
Prowl smiled to himself and pulled another datapad. This one didn’t require much on his end, just a seal of approval.
He didn’t know if Bluestreak would accept it, but the offer was there. Prowl had plenty of positions open in the Enforcers, and they could certainly use good detectives. If he wanted it, of course. Maybe he was happier being freelance and serving drinks. It wasn’t Prowl’s place to judge.
He’d present the opportunity and leave the rest to Bluestreak.
Besides, given that a resignation had been on the datapad before it, there was plenty of room for new faces. Prowl had seen the writing on the wall. Jazz wouldn’t have been happy as an investigator for much longer anyway.
Prowl stamped a glyph of approval on the application and moved it from one stack to another. He idly reached for the next and sipped on a cube of midgrade while he was at it.
The world was back to normal.
Just the way he liked it.
~
Blurr went into labor at what was probably the most inconvenient time, depending on one's point of view. He was halfway between excited and ready to see his bitlet born because he was huge and unwieldy, and he hated it so much.
He hid out at the apartment as much as possible, and while he'd expected Ricochet to make himself scarce the bigger he got, if anything Ricochet spent more time with him. He liked to reach over and palm Blurr's abdomen with a prideful smirk.
It certainly hadn't ruined their interfacing, so there was that.
Blurr, however, was ready to get it over with. He wanted his frame back. He wanted his friends to stop hovering over him.
"You know you're not going to be able to do this naturally," Ratchet said as he scanned Blurr exhibiting a complete calm. Nearby, however, Ricochet vibrated with something akin to anxiety. "I'll have to surgically extract him."
Blurr gritted his denta against the contracting waves in his abdomen, his gestational tank preparing to drop toward the birthing canal. "You might want to do it quicker because I'm guessing he picked up some of my speed."
Ratchet frowned at his scanner. "I think you're right." He tucked away his datapad and hollered into the hallway. "Aid! I'm going to need back up!"
"What the frag does that mean?" Ricochet demanded, pacing back and forth nearby, his armor fluttering and settling and fluttering around his frame. He looked like he needed something to fight.
"Means I need another pair of hands." Ratchet wheeled a cart closer and popped a button on the berth, adjusting it. "You going to be alright, or do I need to banish you to the waiting room?"
"I'll be fine," Ricochet snapped.
He wasn't fine.
Ricochet was banished, and Bluestreak took his place because Jazz was left with the task of keeping Ricochet calmed. Blurr only acknowledged this distantly, because Ratchet pumped a sensory block into him, killing the pain.
It might have left him a little woozy.
He didn't need to do anything but wait as Ratchet and First Aid crowded around him, ready for surgery, and Bluestreak hovered near his head, a firm hand on his shoulder.
"You've got the best," Bluestreak said, sensory panels twitching with obvious excitement, his field warm and comforting. "Everything's going to be just fine."
Blurr believed him.
He had the good drugs.
~
Ricochet paced back and forth. Back and forth. He wasn't anxious, and he wasn't nervous. He paced because waiting was never something that made him comfortable, and he needed to be doing something.
"You're really gone for him, aren't you?"
"Shut up," Ricochet snapped.
Jazz chuckled and intercepted him on the next pass, one hand on his chestplate. "I wasn't teasing," he said, and leaned up, pressing a kiss to the corner of Ricochet's mouth. "I'm proud of you, bro. I didn't think you'd ever settle."
"We," Ricochet corrected as he rested his hand on Jazz's waist, keeping him from retreating. "Didn't think you'd ever settle either. Now look at you, sickeningly soppy with Bluestreak. It'd be adorable if it didn't make me nauseous."
“Jealous?”
“Not one bit.”
"You're gonna be a good sire, you know," he said, with that incisive way of cutting right to the spark of Ricochet's emotions. They were both guilty of it.
"I didn't have a good example." Ricochet set his chin on Jazz's head, between his sensory horns.
"You had a great example of what not to do."
Hmm. He had a point.
"Could be yours," Ricochet said, because it needed to be said. And anyway, it didn’t matter. What was his was Jazz’s and vice versa.
"Nah." Jazz stepped back, though with a lingering pat to Ricochet's chassis. "I'm lettin' ya claim him. Ain't the family type like you are. Me 'n Blue are just fine without a bitlet underfoot."
"For now?"
Jazz's lips twisted as he contemplated, but he finally shook his head. "Prolly for always. It ain't in my nature, you should know that."
Ricochet hooked a hand in his brother's clavicle strut and tugged Jazz closer, pulling him into a kiss. Not as fierce as one he would've planted if they were alone or at least, somewhere not so public, but still fiery. The taste of his brother calmed the last of the worry winding around his spark, and Ricochet vented, even as he nipped Jazz's lips.
"That's what I needed," he said with a grin.
Jazz flickered his visor, heat flushing over his face. "You're incorrigible. You think you can behave in there with Blurr now?"
The door on the other side of the waiting room sprang open. Ricochet leaned around Jazz and Jazz whirled in surprise.
"Did I miss it!?" Drift skidded into view, optics wide and bright, his vents roaring as though he'd sped through the entirety of Autobot City to get here. Which was likely. "Wait a minute. What are you doing out here, Ricochet? Is everything all right?"
Jazz snickered and patted Ricochet on the cheek. "Ratch tossed him out. He was being a nuisance." He twisted out of reach before Ricochet could grab him. "Who's watching the bar if you're here?"
"I called Riptide." Drift gathered himself and clapped his hands, rubbing his palms together "Is everything going okay?"
"As far as we know." Jazz crinkled his orbital ridges. "Not to be rude or anything, but why are you here?"
Drift cycled his optics. He glanced at Ricochet and then back at Jazz. "Blurr didn't tell you?"
Ricochet groaned and palmed his face. "Please don't tell me it might be yours, too." Primus was there anyone Blurr kept his grubby mitts off?
Drift burst into laughter, and Jazz snickered, too. "No. No, absolutely not." Drift cut his hands in front of him, shaking his head. "There's only room in this spark for one mech." He pressed a hand to his chassis. "No, Blurr made me godsire."
"Of course he did," Ricochet sighed, and maybe it was relief. Jazz being the bitlet's sire he could handle, especially since they’d confirmed it wasn't possibly Tracks'. Having to share the bitlet with Drift?
Not so much.
Ratchet was all right, when he wasn't tossing Ricochet out of his partner's medroom, but Drift was far too optimistic for Ricochet's liking. He missed Deadlock. Now there was a mech Ricochet could get along with. Drift was trying too hard.
"So who's in with Blurr?" Drift asked.
"Blue." Jazz leaned against a nearby wall, tucking one ankle over the other. "He's the only one who could keep a level head." He crossed his arms. "All we can do now is wait."
As if on cue, the door slid open, and Ratchet strode out, wiping his hands with a large meshcloth. He paused as he took count of the number of mechs in the waiting room, one orbital ridge raising when he spotted Drift, who waved at him.
Ratchet took it all in stride. "You can calm down. Blurr's fine. The bitlet's fine. Everyone's fine."
The trio of ex-vents his announcement summoned could have launched a rocket into space.
Ratchet’s optics moved over the three of them as if counting. "Ricochet, you first, then the mob. Luckily, I moved Blurr into a bigger room." He tucked the meshcloth away and gestured for Ricochet to follow.
Jazz snagged his arm before he passed, giving it a brief squeeze in a show of solidarity.
Through the sliding doors, Ratchet led him down a hall, to the first door on the right. It slid open for him, and the harsh smell of chemicals and cleanser stung Ricochet's nasal receptors. His spark shrank inside his chassis, anxiety twisting him up, though he didn't let it show in his face or his field.
Blurr lay on a berth, temp plating over his abdomen, sealant gray around the edges. A small clump of red and blue armor rested on his chassis, huddled over his spark chamber, and Blurr's hand rested on its back.
"You've got five minutes before I let in the chaos," Ratchet murmured, and he stepped out, leaving them alone.
Ricochet slunk toward the berth as Blurr's optics onlined and turned toward him, a bit unfocused and hazy.
"Ratchet gave you the good drugs, huh?" Ricochet asked as he sat down, his hip pressing to Blurr's. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the tiny being on Blurr's chassis.
"The best," Blurr murmured with a little hum, and he gave Ricochet a sleepy smile, waving at him with a few fingers. "I feel no pain."
Ricochet chuckled. Blurr was adorable like this. "I'm a bit jealous." He lifted a hand and paused, memories and worries tangling together and clashing. "Can I hold 'im?"
"That's a stupid question." Blurr lifted his hand. "Take him. Don't think I trust myself to pick him up right now." He paused and gave Ricochet a crooked grin. "Not really sure I have fingers."
Ricochet snorted and reached for the bitlet, who protested the lack of Blurr's hand with little squeaks and squirms. He was so small. Ricochet could cup his sparkling in both hands, and so he did, bringing the bitlet up to his face.
Bright amber optics the same shade as his visor stared back at him. Red and blue armor, still soft but Ricochet knew it would harden, glimmered. The little panels on his back twitched.
He was perfect.
Ricochet pressed a gentle kiss to the bitlet's forehead, quietly making a promise. "I'll never be my sire," he murmured, hopefully too quiet for Blurr to hear. He had a reputation to keep, after all.
A hand touched his chin before he could pull back. The bitlet giggled.
Message received.
~
Rodimus’ comm beeped.
He groaned and tried to roll over, but a weight on his left arm kept him pinned in place, his external comm just out of reach.
“I have to get that,” he said, trying to ease his arm from under the warm, cuddly weight tucked against him.
Claws sank into his armor, holding him in place. “I have another hour,” came the sleepy, growled reply. “You promised. Or does the promise of an Autobot mean so little?”
“Don’t bring factions into this.” Rodimus rolled back into place, tucking his berthpartner into the curves of his frame. “I was only going to check. I wasn’t leaving the berth.”
“Mmm. Why don’t I believe you?” Lips nuzzled Rodimus’ intake before a glossa slid across his cables, hot and enticing. “There’s a lot we could do in an hour.”
Rodimus chuckled and swept his free hand over warm plating, his fingers finding a wing hinge and giving it a tweak. “This is very true.”
His comm beeped again.
“Ugh.” Starscream pushed back, giving Rodimus some space. “Just answer the damn thing before the beeping ruins what little mood I have left.”
Rodimus laughed. He wriggled onto his back and stretched out, barely snagging his comm so he could answer it. Though it wasn’t a call, but a text message.
“Oh. Blurr went into labor this morning,” Rodimus said as he skimmed through the details. “Ratchet surgically delivered a healthy sparkling.”
“Why is that important for the Prime of Cybertron to know?” Starscream grumbled as he pushed up and slipped between Rodimus’ legs, knees widening his thighs. “Sparklings are pretty standard.”
Rodimus slid the comm back onto the nightstand and gave Starscream his undivided attention. “Because the sire is a Decepticon.”
“Ricochet, I take it.” Starscream mouthed at the top edge of Rodimus’ chestplate and braced his weight to either side of Rodimus’ shoulders, his field unfurling with lustful intent. “I’m still not happy about his arrest, Rodimus.”
“I’ve had a talk with Prowl. We came to an understanding.” A shiver danced up Rodimus’ backstrut while heat pooled southward. “He’s better aware of the political ramifications.”
Starscream snorted and gave him a narrow look. “He was aware before. Don’t be fooled. That mech is a snake in the grass. He knew exactly what he was doing.” He leaned closer, their nasal ridges almost touching. “It takes one to know one.”
“I can handle my business. You worry about yours.”
A knee nudged between Rodimus’ thighs, sliding up toward the apex of them. “I am. Think of how good that sparkling is going to be for Autobot-Decepticon relations. It’ll be a political boon.”
“I’m sure Blurr will be happy to know you’re already considering his spawn for usefulness.” Rodimus rolled his optics, but he was amused to the core of him. That was Starscream to a point, pragmatic and devious.
“Ricochet would understand.” Starscream mouthed at the curve of Rodimus’ jaw, his denta scraping along in the aftermath. “Enough work-talk. I still have fifty-five minutes, and I want every one of them.”
Rodimus chuckled. “I’m all yours.”
~
“You should name him Rhythm,” Jazz suggested as he straddled a nearby chair, his arms and chin balanced across the back of it.
“I think Gasket is a fine name,” Drift rebutted as he snuggled the bitlet tighter to his chassis and nuzzled his head. “Or maybe Speedy.” He gave Blurr a grin made of sharpened denta.
Ricochet groaned as he came back into the room, stepping right into a discussion that had been nonstop since he’d brought Blurr and the sparkling home. “I’m not taking either of your suggestions.” Though Rhythm had promise, he had to admit. “This is our bitlet, we’re naming him, and we don’t need any help, thank you very much.”
He handed Blurr both blanket and cube of medgrade -- grinning at the look of distaste his partner gave the cube -- and snuggled down into the couch beside Blurr. He tucked Blurr against his side, waited for a protest, and smirked when there wasn’t any. Blurr was cuddly post-birth. He couldn’t even blame the drugs.
“True. Naming one’s sparkling is a time-honored tradition for new parents,” Drift said, and he tickled the bitlet’s belly, provoking a sleepy giggle. “You’ll find a suitable designation when the time is right.”
“Thank you, Drift.” Blurr cut his optics at Jazz pointedly. “The uncle could learn a lot from you.”
Jazz held up his hands, leaning back in the chair. “Hey, I’m the only one with style in this room. Ya don’t want to saddle my kin with a terrible name, do you? The world doesn’t need any more Dents.”
Ricochet chuckled at that. Jazz did have a point.
“Have one of your own and then we can talk,” Blurr retorted.
Everyone else might have missed it, but Ricochet didn’t. He knew his twin too well. He knew how to read the flinch, the quiver of terror in his brother’s field before it was gone again, buried behind the genuine joy he felt for Ricochet’s sake. Ricochet suspected that was a conversation Jazz hadn’t had with Bluestreak yet.
Well, he’d let nature run its course. If no progress was made, Ricochet would have a chat with Bluestreak himself. Jazz could be so damn stubborn sometimes.
“No, thanks,” Jazz said with a laugh, back to his usual playful dismissiveness. He rocked on the chair, making a horrendous clatter. “I’ll leave that honor to you.”
“I hope I can convince Ratch soon,” Drift said, and Ricochet wrinkled his nose at the dreamy look in the once-Decepticon’s optics. “I want a dozen.” He snuggled their sparkling closer, prompting a squeak.
Blurr laughed. “Something tells me Ratchet might draw the line at twelve. But good luck with that.”
“Stop slobbering on my bitlet,” Ricochet added, rolling his optics. “You’re going to infect him with your optimism.”
Blurr gave him a nudge in the side. “That’s not a bad thing.” He finished his cube, and Ricochet took it from him, whisking the empty into subspace rather than move and disturb their cuddle.
“Yes, it is.”
Jazz laughed and launched himself out of the chair, stretching his arms over his head. “Hear that, Drift? That’s the sound of new parents who need to make a decision and we’re just in the way.”
“Speak for yourself,” Drift said, giving Jazz a baleful look. He twisted his frame away from Jazz, curving his arms tighter around the bitlet. “It’s still my turn.”
“I don’t think we’re getting him back,” Ricochet murmured into Blurr’s audial. He stroked Blurr’s shoulder, savoring the warmth of Blurr curled against him, for once without protest.
It was more than nice. It was family. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was.
Blurr chuckled and rested a hand on Ricochet’s thigh, surprisingly chaste considering who they were. “Consider it advertising for a ready and willing sitter.”
Oh. Good point.
“No, it’s time for you to go to work so I can take Bluestreak home,” Jazz corrected as his visor flashed. He stepped into Drift’s space and pressed a kiss to the bitlet’s forehead. “Let’s give my nephew back to his parents, yeah?” He slipped the sparkling free of Drift’s arms before Drift could blink.
It was subtle, but disappointment made Drift sag. He watched Jazz go with evident longing. Ricochet wondered if it would be prudent to perhaps warn Ratchet. But then, he supposed Ratchet knew what he was getting into when he made Drift his conjunx. This couldn’t possibly come as a surprise.
Jazz bounced the bitlet in his arms, and the little one chirped, trying to paw at Jazz but missing terribly. Jazz grinned. “You’re going to be a terror,” he said as he leaned down, depositing their sparkling in Blurr’s waiting arms.
“Considering he’s both of your spawn? Definitely,” Blurr grumbled but he nuzzled the bitlet anyway, feathering his face with kisses. “I’m going to have my hands full.”
“Well, ya have lots of help, so I don’t want to hear any complainin’.” Jazz cut a look toward Ricochet, and Ricochet nodded. Yeah, they’d have a talk later. He could read the worry in his brother’s field as surely as he could read it on Jazz’s face.
They’d both gone through the grinder of war and come out changed, but sometimes, Ricochet worried it had broken his twin. Hopefully, Bluestreak could help put those pieces back together.
“Come on, Drift. Let’s go.” Jazz hooked Drift’s elbow as he passed, tugging him toward the door. “Let the new family get settled.”
Drift let himself be pulled. “I’ll send you the receipts later, Blurr. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
They left, and Ricochet ex-vented, head tilting back against the couch. “Finally,” he grumbled as the bitlet squirmed in Blurr’s arms, and Blurr leaned into him, his field screaming exhaustion.
“Gonna nap now,” Blurr said, a touch of static flavoring his words.
“We still need to decide on a name.”
“Later.” Blurr adjusted his hold on their sparkling, and the thrum of his spark soothed the little one like no other sound did. Knew his carrier, their bitlet did.
Ricochet grinned and tucked Blurr against his side, unsurprised when the Racer dropped into a stasis nap almost immediately. Ricochet brushed a finger over his bitlet’s cheek, his spark throbbing with affection as the infant turned into the caress.
He’d almost lost this. He couldn’t believe a single favor for Jazz had turned into this. He supposed he owed his twin a thank you.
The universe had finally done him a solid. Would wonders never cease?
~
"You ever think about sparklings?"
Bluestreak paused in the middle of his careful knots. It seemed a rather random place for Jazz to be bringing up such a topic, but he suspected it was one that had been percolating all day, and Jazz hadn't felt safe to address it until now.
He finished the knot, smoothed the rope in place, then moved around to face Jazz, surveying his work. The crimson rope twisted and wound over Jazz's frame, striping his armor. He looked gorgeous, and a curl of arousal deepened into a quiet purr in Bluestreak's belly.
But Jazz had asked a question. He watched Bluestreak now, expectation hanging heavy in his field.
Bluestreak moved close enough to cup Jazz's cheek. "No," he answered honestly. "Though maybe what you're asking is a little different. Yes, I've thought about them once. Enough to determine it was the last time I'd think about them. I have no interest." He paused, and carefully concealed his field. "Is that a line for us?"
Jazz tilted his head into Bluestreak's palm. He visibly relaxed, and the ropes drew taut around his frame, finally accepting his weight. "Thank Primus."
"Is that the answer you needed to hear?" Bluestreak asked, letting his field unfurl, offering a taste of the desire pooling inside him.
Jazz answered back with a molten burst of charge. "Yeah. So now that's over, can we get back to the good stuff?"
Bluestreak grinned. He thought of the contract they'd finally agreed on and signed, and maybe, he should have added something about future expectations. But honestly, he was more proud Jazz had asked rather than letting it fester.
"I have one more rope I want to add.” Bluestreak slid his hand down Jazz's frame, teasing his seams, ghosting over his abdomen, before he palmed the damp heat of him -- spike safely stowed.
Jazz shivered, tried to cant his hips forward, but the ropes creaked and held him back. His engine purred approvingly.
Bluestreak brushed a fingertip over Jazz's already swollen node, and slid two fingers into Jazz's valve, slick lubricant immediately soaking them. He curled his fingers, rubbing the cluster of nodes just behind Jazz's rim.
A moan spilled out of Jazz's intake. His shoulders strained at the ropes. He tried to rock his hips again, and got nowhere. His field tangled with Bluestreak’s, pulsing heat and desire and affection.
Maybe he didn’t need the other rope.
Bluestreak stroked deeper, adding a third finger for a stretch that made Jazz keen. His visor flickered, his glossa sweeping over his lips.
“Please, Blue, don’t tease me.” Jazz panted, his valve clenching down on Bluestreak’s fingers, hot and tight and hungry. More lubricant dribbled out as Bluestreak pressed the heel of his hand against Jazz’s swollen nub.
Jazz’s backstrut arched. Charge licked out from under his armor. The ropes criss-crossed over his armor in elegant lines, highlighting all the places his plating glowed.
He was beautiful.
“Tell me what you want, Jazz,” Bluestreak murmured. They hadn’t gotten to other titles yet. They would in time, but Bluestreak wanted it to come naturally. “Ask me for it.”
“You.” Jazz swallowed, his intake bobbing, and his valve rippled around Bluestreak’s fingers. “Just you. Always you.”
He didn’t just mean this moment either. Bluestreak was perceptive enough to pick up on that. He kept stroking Jazz gently, but he leaned in and brushed his lips over Jazz’s.
“You have me,” he murmured as he dragged kisses up the side of Jazz’s jaw and back to his mouth again, Jazz’s ex-vents puffing hot and damp over his dermal net.
Jazz shivered and sank fully into the ropes, letting them hold his weight, his valve rippling taut around Bluestreak’s fingers.
“You’re mine,” Bluestreak added as he slid close enough to curl his arm around Jazz’s waist, tugging him into an embrace. “I’ve claimed you. I’ll share you. But that doesn’t stop you from being mine. I’ve waited a long time for you. I’m not letting go.”
Jazz made a sound, a cross between a whimper and a moan, and his visor turned a deep, spark-blue. His field tangled around Bluestreak’s as if a substitute for the physical motions he couldn’t make, wrapped up in ropes as he was.
He always tested Bluestreak’s restraint.
They fitted together like puzzle pieces, and Bluestreak’s spinal strut zapped charge as he slid into Jazz, his spike replacing his fingers. Jazz melted against him, mouth opening to Bluestreak, Their fields clashed and tangled, desire and arousal intermingling.
His only regret was that they hadn’t done this sooner.
~
They named him Echo. It was Ricochet's idea, pulled from a list Ricochet made, and of the options, Blurr liked Echo the most. It was closest to Ricochet’s designation, and given how delighted Ricochet was to be a sire, Blurr thought it only fair.
When Ricochet’s visor lit up with delight and he gleefully called the bitlet ‘Echo’ while smothering Echo’s face in kisses, Blurr knew he’d made the right choice.
In more ways than one.
What further proof did he need?
Ricochet intended to stay, intended to help raise Echo, intended to be a present sire. Watching Ricochet hold Echo and tickle him and try to coax energon into his mouth... The realization washed over Blurr.
Ricochet intended to stay.
"Why're you lookin' at me like that?" Ricochet asked as he pushed another dissolvable energon bite into Echo's mouth, and their sparkling chirped happily around his finger.
Blurr smiled. "No reason." He rose from the couch, hiding a wince as his abdomen twinged. A couple more days and he'd be fully healed, but his internals were still settling in place and it was not a comfortable sensation.
Ricochet's visor narrowed at him. "I don't believe you."
"I'm going to take a nap," Blurr declared as he snuck in to plant a kiss on Echo's forehead before tickling his belly.
Echo squeaked a giggle. Primus, he was adorable. Blurr couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought to want this before.
He straightened and kissed Ricochet as well, glossa teasing the seam of his partner’s lips before sliding inside. Ricochet tasted of the midgrade they’d share earlier, and the kiss was unexpectedly gentle. Romantic. Like real partners do.
Blurr grinned and gave Ricochet a wink. "If you can get him to settle into one, too, then maybe you can join me," he said, layering his tone with implications.
Ricochet's engine rumbled, causing Echo to giggle again and grab Ricochet's hand for another treat. He was a hungry little thing. Blurr had zero experience with sparklings, so he hoped that was a good sign. Or maybe he had just as much Racer in him as he did spec ops spy.
"He'll be snoozin' in five minutes," Ricochet declared with a toothy grin, his visor raking Blurr from head to toe, as though he were still attractive even with the temporary welds and the gaps in his armor from unsettled plating. "Don't fall asleep without me."
Blurr tickled Echo's belly again. "I make no promises." He brushed another kiss over his sparkling’s forehead, soaking in the affectionate fields from both important mechs in his life.
It wasn't the life he'd ever imagined for himself. Honestly, he hadn't imagined living through the war, though he'd wanted to. He'd been realistic, deep in the depths of his spark. He knew he was reckless and war was dangerous and mechs left and right of him were dying. He figured at some point, he'd join them.
He didn't know he'd live long enough to see peace. Or to meet someone he'd consider forming a permanent bond with. Or to carry a sparkling. They were so distant as to be impossible, nothing bearing consideration.
And yet.
Here he was.
Exclusive with Ricochet. A sparkling born of his own tank. He owned his own business. He had a place to live. Random threats aside, he was safe.
It was almost too good to be true.
But damn if Blurr wasn't glad he had it.
***
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.
Eventually, things settled.
Post-war Cybertron was a Cybertron used to war and violence and danger. The fervor peaked around the time Prowl announced the perpetrator and his subsequent death. Murmurs lingered as mechs created their own wild theories, but eventually, everyone went back to their mundane lives, and Prowl could focus on the things that really mattered.
He finished his reports on time, shuttling them off to Rodimus where they’d sit on the corner of the Prime’s desk collecting dust, until Ultra Magnus planted Rodimus Prime in his chair, one hand firmly on his shoulder, and told him to ‘sit’. Rodimus would pout for however long it took for Ultra Magnus to bring him a big cube of his favorite drink, and then he’d sit down and get to work.
Afterward, he’d vanish to ‘discuss the current state of affairs’ with the Decepticon Emperor or whatever fancy title Starscream had given himself these days, and more connections would be made. The peace treaty would further cement itself, and Cybertron would ventilate a little easier knowing it was that much further from devolving back into war.
It took careful planning. It took even more careful tugging on a few strings here, a mention there, movement of pieces on a gameboard.
Prowl was not a bad mech.
He was an intelligent one, perhaps devastatingly so. He was only doing what he’d been taught to do, what he’d been sparked to do.
He was making Cybertron a better place, no matter what it took. He ensured a safe home for every Cybertronian on the planet.
Prowl smiled to himself and pulled another datapad. This one didn’t require much on his end, just a seal of approval.
He didn’t know if Bluestreak would accept it, but the offer was there. Prowl had plenty of positions open in the Enforcers, and they could certainly use good detectives. If he wanted it, of course. Maybe he was happier being freelance and serving drinks. It wasn’t Prowl’s place to judge.
He’d present the opportunity and leave the rest to Bluestreak.
Besides, given that a resignation had been on the datapad before it, there was plenty of room for new faces. Prowl had seen the writing on the wall. Jazz wouldn’t have been happy as an investigator for much longer anyway.
Prowl stamped a glyph of approval on the application and moved it from one stack to another. He idly reached for the next and sipped on a cube of midgrade while he was at it.
The world was back to normal.
Just the way he liked it.
Blurr went into labor at what was probably the most inconvenient time, depending on one's point of view. He was halfway between excited and ready to see his bitlet born because he was huge and unwieldy, and he hated it so much.
He hid out at the apartment as much as possible, and while he'd expected Ricochet to make himself scarce the bigger he got, if anything Ricochet spent more time with him. He liked to reach over and palm Blurr's abdomen with a prideful smirk.
It certainly hadn't ruined their interfacing, so there was that.
Blurr, however, was ready to get it over with. He wanted his frame back. He wanted his friends to stop hovering over him.
"You know you're not going to be able to do this naturally," Ratchet said as he scanned Blurr exhibiting a complete calm. Nearby, however, Ricochet vibrated with something akin to anxiety. "I'll have to surgically extract him."
Blurr gritted his denta against the contracting waves in his abdomen, his gestational tank preparing to drop toward the birthing canal. "You might want to do it quicker because I'm guessing he picked up some of my speed."
Ratchet frowned at his scanner. "I think you're right." He tucked away his datapad and hollered into the hallway. "Aid! I'm going to need back up!"
"What the frag does that mean?" Ricochet demanded, pacing back and forth nearby, his armor fluttering and settling and fluttering around his frame. He looked like he needed something to fight.
"Means I need another pair of hands." Ratchet wheeled a cart closer and popped a button on the berth, adjusting it. "You going to be alright, or do I need to banish you to the waiting room?"
"I'll be fine," Ricochet snapped.
He wasn't fine.
Ricochet was banished, and Bluestreak took his place because Jazz was left with the task of keeping Ricochet calmed. Blurr only acknowledged this distantly, because Ratchet pumped a sensory block into him, killing the pain.
It might have left him a little woozy.
He didn't need to do anything but wait as Ratchet and First Aid crowded around him, ready for surgery, and Bluestreak hovered near his head, a firm hand on his shoulder.
"You've got the best," Bluestreak said, sensory panels twitching with obvious excitement, his field warm and comforting. "Everything's going to be just fine."
Blurr believed him.
He had the good drugs.
Ricochet paced back and forth. Back and forth. He wasn't anxious, and he wasn't nervous. He paced because waiting was never something that made him comfortable, and he needed to be doing something.
"You're really gone for him, aren't you?"
"Shut up," Ricochet snapped.
Jazz chuckled and intercepted him on the next pass, one hand on his chestplate. "I wasn't teasing," he said, and leaned up, pressing a kiss to the corner of Ricochet's mouth. "I'm proud of you, bro. I didn't think you'd ever settle."
"We," Ricochet corrected as he rested his hand on Jazz's waist, keeping him from retreating. "Didn't think you'd ever settle either. Now look at you, sickeningly soppy with Bluestreak. It'd be adorable if it didn't make me nauseous."
“Jealous?”
“Not one bit.”
"You're gonna be a good sire, you know," he said, with that incisive way of cutting right to the spark of Ricochet's emotions. They were both guilty of it.
"I didn't have a good example." Ricochet set his chin on Jazz's head, between his sensory horns.
"You had a great example of what not to do."
Hmm. He had a point.
"Could be yours," Ricochet said, because it needed to be said. And anyway, it didn’t matter. What was his was Jazz’s and vice versa.
"Nah." Jazz stepped back, though with a lingering pat to Ricochet's chassis. "I'm lettin' ya claim him. Ain't the family type like you are. Me 'n Blue are just fine without a bitlet underfoot."
"For now?"
Jazz's lips twisted as he contemplated, but he finally shook his head. "Prolly for always. It ain't in my nature, you should know that."
Ricochet hooked a hand in his brother's clavicle strut and tugged Jazz closer, pulling him into a kiss. Not as fierce as one he would've planted if they were alone or at least, somewhere not so public, but still fiery. The taste of his brother calmed the last of the worry winding around his spark, and Ricochet vented, even as he nipped Jazz's lips.
"That's what I needed," he said with a grin.
Jazz flickered his visor, heat flushing over his face. "You're incorrigible. You think you can behave in there with Blurr now?"
The door on the other side of the waiting room sprang open. Ricochet leaned around Jazz and Jazz whirled in surprise.
"Did I miss it!?" Drift skidded into view, optics wide and bright, his vents roaring as though he'd sped through the entirety of Autobot City to get here. Which was likely. "Wait a minute. What are you doing out here, Ricochet? Is everything all right?"
Jazz snickered and patted Ricochet on the cheek. "Ratch tossed him out. He was being a nuisance." He twisted out of reach before Ricochet could grab him. "Who's watching the bar if you're here?"
"I called Riptide." Drift gathered himself and clapped his hands, rubbing his palms together "Is everything going okay?"
"As far as we know." Jazz crinkled his orbital ridges. "Not to be rude or anything, but why are you here?"
Drift cycled his optics. He glanced at Ricochet and then back at Jazz. "Blurr didn't tell you?"
Ricochet groaned and palmed his face. "Please don't tell me it might be yours, too." Primus was there anyone Blurr kept his grubby mitts off?
Drift burst into laughter, and Jazz snickered, too. "No. No, absolutely not." Drift cut his hands in front of him, shaking his head. "There's only room in this spark for one mech." He pressed a hand to his chassis. "No, Blurr made me godsire."
"Of course he did," Ricochet sighed, and maybe it was relief. Jazz being the bitlet's sire he could handle, especially since they’d confirmed it wasn't possibly Tracks'. Having to share the bitlet with Drift?
Not so much.
Ratchet was all right, when he wasn't tossing Ricochet out of his partner's medroom, but Drift was far too optimistic for Ricochet's liking. He missed Deadlock. Now there was a mech Ricochet could get along with. Drift was trying too hard.
"So who's in with Blurr?" Drift asked.
"Blue." Jazz leaned against a nearby wall, tucking one ankle over the other. "He's the only one who could keep a level head." He crossed his arms. "All we can do now is wait."
As if on cue, the door slid open, and Ratchet strode out, wiping his hands with a large meshcloth. He paused as he took count of the number of mechs in the waiting room, one orbital ridge raising when he spotted Drift, who waved at him.
Ratchet took it all in stride. "You can calm down. Blurr's fine. The bitlet's fine. Everyone's fine."
The trio of ex-vents his announcement summoned could have launched a rocket into space.
Ratchet’s optics moved over the three of them as if counting. "Ricochet, you first, then the mob. Luckily, I moved Blurr into a bigger room." He tucked the meshcloth away and gestured for Ricochet to follow.
Jazz snagged his arm before he passed, giving it a brief squeeze in a show of solidarity.
Through the sliding doors, Ratchet led him down a hall, to the first door on the right. It slid open for him, and the harsh smell of chemicals and cleanser stung Ricochet's nasal receptors. His spark shrank inside his chassis, anxiety twisting him up, though he didn't let it show in his face or his field.
Blurr lay on a berth, temp plating over his abdomen, sealant gray around the edges. A small clump of red and blue armor rested on his chassis, huddled over his spark chamber, and Blurr's hand rested on its back.
"You've got five minutes before I let in the chaos," Ratchet murmured, and he stepped out, leaving them alone.
Ricochet slunk toward the berth as Blurr's optics onlined and turned toward him, a bit unfocused and hazy.
"Ratchet gave you the good drugs, huh?" Ricochet asked as he sat down, his hip pressing to Blurr's. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the tiny being on Blurr's chassis.
"The best," Blurr murmured with a little hum, and he gave Ricochet a sleepy smile, waving at him with a few fingers. "I feel no pain."
Ricochet chuckled. Blurr was adorable like this. "I'm a bit jealous." He lifted a hand and paused, memories and worries tangling together and clashing. "Can I hold 'im?"
"That's a stupid question." Blurr lifted his hand. "Take him. Don't think I trust myself to pick him up right now." He paused and gave Ricochet a crooked grin. "Not really sure I have fingers."
Ricochet snorted and reached for the bitlet, who protested the lack of Blurr's hand with little squeaks and squirms. He was so small. Ricochet could cup his sparkling in both hands, and so he did, bringing the bitlet up to his face.
Bright amber optics the same shade as his visor stared back at him. Red and blue armor, still soft but Ricochet knew it would harden, glimmered. The little panels on his back twitched.
He was perfect.
Ricochet pressed a gentle kiss to the bitlet's forehead, quietly making a promise. "I'll never be my sire," he murmured, hopefully too quiet for Blurr to hear. He had a reputation to keep, after all.
A hand touched his chin before he could pull back. The bitlet giggled.
Message received.
Rodimus’ comm beeped.
He groaned and tried to roll over, but a weight on his left arm kept him pinned in place, his external comm just out of reach.
“I have to get that,” he said, trying to ease his arm from under the warm, cuddly weight tucked against him.
Claws sank into his armor, holding him in place. “I have another hour,” came the sleepy, growled reply. “You promised. Or does the promise of an Autobot mean so little?”
“Don’t bring factions into this.” Rodimus rolled back into place, tucking his berthpartner into the curves of his frame. “I was only going to check. I wasn’t leaving the berth.”
“Mmm. Why don’t I believe you?” Lips nuzzled Rodimus’ intake before a glossa slid across his cables, hot and enticing. “There’s a lot we could do in an hour.”
Rodimus chuckled and swept his free hand over warm plating, his fingers finding a wing hinge and giving it a tweak. “This is very true.”
His comm beeped again.
“Ugh.” Starscream pushed back, giving Rodimus some space. “Just answer the damn thing before the beeping ruins what little mood I have left.”
Rodimus laughed. He wriggled onto his back and stretched out, barely snagging his comm so he could answer it. Though it wasn’t a call, but a text message.
“Oh. Blurr went into labor this morning,” Rodimus said as he skimmed through the details. “Ratchet surgically delivered a healthy sparkling.”
“Why is that important for the Prime of Cybertron to know?” Starscream grumbled as he pushed up and slipped between Rodimus’ legs, knees widening his thighs. “Sparklings are pretty standard.”
Rodimus slid the comm back onto the nightstand and gave Starscream his undivided attention. “Because the sire is a Decepticon.”
“Ricochet, I take it.” Starscream mouthed at the top edge of Rodimus’ chestplate and braced his weight to either side of Rodimus’ shoulders, his field unfurling with lustful intent. “I’m still not happy about his arrest, Rodimus.”
“I’ve had a talk with Prowl. We came to an understanding.” A shiver danced up Rodimus’ backstrut while heat pooled southward. “He’s better aware of the political ramifications.”
Starscream snorted and gave him a narrow look. “He was aware before. Don’t be fooled. That mech is a snake in the grass. He knew exactly what he was doing.” He leaned closer, their nasal ridges almost touching. “It takes one to know one.”
“I can handle my business. You worry about yours.”
A knee nudged between Rodimus’ thighs, sliding up toward the apex of them. “I am. Think of how good that sparkling is going to be for Autobot-Decepticon relations. It’ll be a political boon.”
“I’m sure Blurr will be happy to know you’re already considering his spawn for usefulness.” Rodimus rolled his optics, but he was amused to the core of him. That was Starscream to a point, pragmatic and devious.
“Ricochet would understand.” Starscream mouthed at the curve of Rodimus’ jaw, his denta scraping along in the aftermath. “Enough work-talk. I still have fifty-five minutes, and I want every one of them.”
Rodimus chuckled. “I’m all yours.”
“You should name him Rhythm,” Jazz suggested as he straddled a nearby chair, his arms and chin balanced across the back of it.
“I think Gasket is a fine name,” Drift rebutted as he snuggled the bitlet tighter to his chassis and nuzzled his head. “Or maybe Speedy.” He gave Blurr a grin made of sharpened denta.
Ricochet groaned as he came back into the room, stepping right into a discussion that had been nonstop since he’d brought Blurr and the sparkling home. “I’m not taking either of your suggestions.” Though Rhythm had promise, he had to admit. “This is our bitlet, we’re naming him, and we don’t need any help, thank you very much.”
He handed Blurr both blanket and cube of medgrade -- grinning at the look of distaste his partner gave the cube -- and snuggled down into the couch beside Blurr. He tucked Blurr against his side, waited for a protest, and smirked when there wasn’t any. Blurr was cuddly post-birth. He couldn’t even blame the drugs.
“True. Naming one’s sparkling is a time-honored tradition for new parents,” Drift said, and he tickled the bitlet’s belly, provoking a sleepy giggle. “You’ll find a suitable designation when the time is right.”
“Thank you, Drift.” Blurr cut his optics at Jazz pointedly. “The uncle could learn a lot from you.”
Jazz held up his hands, leaning back in the chair. “Hey, I’m the only one with style in this room. Ya don’t want to saddle my kin with a terrible name, do you? The world doesn’t need any more Dents.”
Ricochet chuckled at that. Jazz did have a point.
“Have one of your own and then we can talk,” Blurr retorted.
Everyone else might have missed it, but Ricochet didn’t. He knew his twin too well. He knew how to read the flinch, the quiver of terror in his brother’s field before it was gone again, buried behind the genuine joy he felt for Ricochet’s sake. Ricochet suspected that was a conversation Jazz hadn’t had with Bluestreak yet.
Well, he’d let nature run its course. If no progress was made, Ricochet would have a chat with Bluestreak himself. Jazz could be so damn stubborn sometimes.
“No, thanks,” Jazz said with a laugh, back to his usual playful dismissiveness. He rocked on the chair, making a horrendous clatter. “I’ll leave that honor to you.”
“I hope I can convince Ratch soon,” Drift said, and Ricochet wrinkled his nose at the dreamy look in the once-Decepticon’s optics. “I want a dozen.” He snuggled their sparkling closer, prompting a squeak.
Blurr laughed. “Something tells me Ratchet might draw the line at twelve. But good luck with that.”
“Stop slobbering on my bitlet,” Ricochet added, rolling his optics. “You’re going to infect him with your optimism.”
Blurr gave him a nudge in the side. “That’s not a bad thing.” He finished his cube, and Ricochet took it from him, whisking the empty into subspace rather than move and disturb their cuddle.
“Yes, it is.”
Jazz laughed and launched himself out of the chair, stretching his arms over his head. “Hear that, Drift? That’s the sound of new parents who need to make a decision and we’re just in the way.”
“Speak for yourself,” Drift said, giving Jazz a baleful look. He twisted his frame away from Jazz, curving his arms tighter around the bitlet. “It’s still my turn.”
“I don’t think we’re getting him back,” Ricochet murmured into Blurr’s audial. He stroked Blurr’s shoulder, savoring the warmth of Blurr curled against him, for once without protest.
It was more than nice. It was family. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was.
Blurr chuckled and rested a hand on Ricochet’s thigh, surprisingly chaste considering who they were. “Consider it advertising for a ready and willing sitter.”
Oh. Good point.
“No, it’s time for you to go to work so I can take Bluestreak home,” Jazz corrected as his visor flashed. He stepped into Drift’s space and pressed a kiss to the bitlet’s forehead. “Let’s give my nephew back to his parents, yeah?” He slipped the sparkling free of Drift’s arms before Drift could blink.
It was subtle, but disappointment made Drift sag. He watched Jazz go with evident longing. Ricochet wondered if it would be prudent to perhaps warn Ratchet. But then, he supposed Ratchet knew what he was getting into when he made Drift his conjunx. This couldn’t possibly come as a surprise.
Jazz bounced the bitlet in his arms, and the little one chirped, trying to paw at Jazz but missing terribly. Jazz grinned. “You’re going to be a terror,” he said as he leaned down, depositing their sparkling in Blurr’s waiting arms.
“Considering he’s both of your spawn? Definitely,” Blurr grumbled but he nuzzled the bitlet anyway, feathering his face with kisses. “I’m going to have my hands full.”
“Well, ya have lots of help, so I don’t want to hear any complainin’.” Jazz cut a look toward Ricochet, and Ricochet nodded. Yeah, they’d have a talk later. He could read the worry in his brother’s field as surely as he could read it on Jazz’s face.
They’d both gone through the grinder of war and come out changed, but sometimes, Ricochet worried it had broken his twin. Hopefully, Bluestreak could help put those pieces back together.
“Come on, Drift. Let’s go.” Jazz hooked Drift’s elbow as he passed, tugging him toward the door. “Let the new family get settled.”
Drift let himself be pulled. “I’ll send you the receipts later, Blurr. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
They left, and Ricochet ex-vented, head tilting back against the couch. “Finally,” he grumbled as the bitlet squirmed in Blurr’s arms, and Blurr leaned into him, his field screaming exhaustion.
“Gonna nap now,” Blurr said, a touch of static flavoring his words.
“We still need to decide on a name.”
“Later.” Blurr adjusted his hold on their sparkling, and the thrum of his spark soothed the little one like no other sound did. Knew his carrier, their bitlet did.
Ricochet grinned and tucked Blurr against his side, unsurprised when the Racer dropped into a stasis nap almost immediately. Ricochet brushed a finger over his bitlet’s cheek, his spark throbbing with affection as the infant turned into the caress.
He’d almost lost this. He couldn’t believe a single favor for Jazz had turned into this. He supposed he owed his twin a thank you.
The universe had finally done him a solid. Would wonders never cease?
"You ever think about sparklings?"
Bluestreak paused in the middle of his careful knots. It seemed a rather random place for Jazz to be bringing up such a topic, but he suspected it was one that had been percolating all day, and Jazz hadn't felt safe to address it until now.
He finished the knot, smoothed the rope in place, then moved around to face Jazz, surveying his work. The crimson rope twisted and wound over Jazz's frame, striping his armor. He looked gorgeous, and a curl of arousal deepened into a quiet purr in Bluestreak's belly.
But Jazz had asked a question. He watched Bluestreak now, expectation hanging heavy in his field.
Bluestreak moved close enough to cup Jazz's cheek. "No," he answered honestly. "Though maybe what you're asking is a little different. Yes, I've thought about them once. Enough to determine it was the last time I'd think about them. I have no interest." He paused, and carefully concealed his field. "Is that a line for us?"
Jazz tilted his head into Bluestreak's palm. He visibly relaxed, and the ropes drew taut around his frame, finally accepting his weight. "Thank Primus."
"Is that the answer you needed to hear?" Bluestreak asked, letting his field unfurl, offering a taste of the desire pooling inside him.
Jazz answered back with a molten burst of charge. "Yeah. So now that's over, can we get back to the good stuff?"
Bluestreak grinned. He thought of the contract they'd finally agreed on and signed, and maybe, he should have added something about future expectations. But honestly, he was more proud Jazz had asked rather than letting it fester.
"I have one more rope I want to add.” Bluestreak slid his hand down Jazz's frame, teasing his seams, ghosting over his abdomen, before he palmed the damp heat of him -- spike safely stowed.
Jazz shivered, tried to cant his hips forward, but the ropes creaked and held him back. His engine purred approvingly.
Bluestreak brushed a fingertip over Jazz's already swollen node, and slid two fingers into Jazz's valve, slick lubricant immediately soaking them. He curled his fingers, rubbing the cluster of nodes just behind Jazz's rim.
A moan spilled out of Jazz's intake. His shoulders strained at the ropes. He tried to rock his hips again, and got nowhere. His field tangled with Bluestreak’s, pulsing heat and desire and affection.
Maybe he didn’t need the other rope.
Bluestreak stroked deeper, adding a third finger for a stretch that made Jazz keen. His visor flickered, his glossa sweeping over his lips.
“Please, Blue, don’t tease me.” Jazz panted, his valve clenching down on Bluestreak’s fingers, hot and tight and hungry. More lubricant dribbled out as Bluestreak pressed the heel of his hand against Jazz’s swollen nub.
Jazz’s backstrut arched. Charge licked out from under his armor. The ropes criss-crossed over his armor in elegant lines, highlighting all the places his plating glowed.
He was beautiful.
“Tell me what you want, Jazz,” Bluestreak murmured. They hadn’t gotten to other titles yet. They would in time, but Bluestreak wanted it to come naturally. “Ask me for it.”
“You.” Jazz swallowed, his intake bobbing, and his valve rippled around Bluestreak’s fingers. “Just you. Always you.”
He didn’t just mean this moment either. Bluestreak was perceptive enough to pick up on that. He kept stroking Jazz gently, but he leaned in and brushed his lips over Jazz’s.
“You have me,” he murmured as he dragged kisses up the side of Jazz’s jaw and back to his mouth again, Jazz’s ex-vents puffing hot and damp over his dermal net.
Jazz shivered and sank fully into the ropes, letting them hold his weight, his valve rippling taut around Bluestreak’s fingers.
“You’re mine,” Bluestreak added as he slid close enough to curl his arm around Jazz’s waist, tugging him into an embrace. “I’ve claimed you. I’ll share you. But that doesn’t stop you from being mine. I’ve waited a long time for you. I’m not letting go.”
Jazz made a sound, a cross between a whimper and a moan, and his visor turned a deep, spark-blue. His field tangled around Bluestreak’s as if a substitute for the physical motions he couldn’t make, wrapped up in ropes as he was.
He always tested Bluestreak’s restraint.
They fitted together like puzzle pieces, and Bluestreak’s spinal strut zapped charge as he slid into Jazz, his spike replacing his fingers. Jazz melted against him, mouth opening to Bluestreak, Their fields clashed and tangled, desire and arousal intermingling.
His only regret was that they hadn’t done this sooner.
They named him Echo. It was Ricochet's idea, pulled from a list Ricochet made, and of the options, Blurr liked Echo the most. It was closest to Ricochet’s designation, and given how delighted Ricochet was to be a sire, Blurr thought it only fair.
When Ricochet’s visor lit up with delight and he gleefully called the bitlet ‘Echo’ while smothering Echo’s face in kisses, Blurr knew he’d made the right choice.
In more ways than one.
What further proof did he need?
Ricochet intended to stay, intended to help raise Echo, intended to be a present sire. Watching Ricochet hold Echo and tickle him and try to coax energon into his mouth... The realization washed over Blurr.
Ricochet intended to stay.
"Why're you lookin' at me like that?" Ricochet asked as he pushed another dissolvable energon bite into Echo's mouth, and their sparkling chirped happily around his finger.
Blurr smiled. "No reason." He rose from the couch, hiding a wince as his abdomen twinged. A couple more days and he'd be fully healed, but his internals were still settling in place and it was not a comfortable sensation.
Ricochet's visor narrowed at him. "I don't believe you."
"I'm going to take a nap," Blurr declared as he snuck in to plant a kiss on Echo's forehead before tickling his belly.
Echo squeaked a giggle. Primus, he was adorable. Blurr couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought to want this before.
He straightened and kissed Ricochet as well, glossa teasing the seam of his partner’s lips before sliding inside. Ricochet tasted of the midgrade they’d share earlier, and the kiss was unexpectedly gentle. Romantic. Like real partners do.
Blurr grinned and gave Ricochet a wink. "If you can get him to settle into one, too, then maybe you can join me," he said, layering his tone with implications.
Ricochet's engine rumbled, causing Echo to giggle again and grab Ricochet's hand for another treat. He was a hungry little thing. Blurr had zero experience with sparklings, so he hoped that was a good sign. Or maybe he had just as much Racer in him as he did spec ops spy.
"He'll be snoozin' in five minutes," Ricochet declared with a toothy grin, his visor raking Blurr from head to toe, as though he were still attractive even with the temporary welds and the gaps in his armor from unsettled plating. "Don't fall asleep without me."
Blurr tickled Echo's belly again. "I make no promises." He brushed another kiss over his sparkling’s forehead, soaking in the affectionate fields from both important mechs in his life.
It wasn't the life he'd ever imagined for himself. Honestly, he hadn't imagined living through the war, though he'd wanted to. He'd been realistic, deep in the depths of his spark. He knew he was reckless and war was dangerous and mechs left and right of him were dying. He figured at some point, he'd join them.
He didn't know he'd live long enough to see peace. Or to meet someone he'd consider forming a permanent bond with. Or to carry a sparkling. They were so distant as to be impossible, nothing bearing consideration.
And yet.
Here he was.
Exclusive with Ricochet. A sparkling born of his own tank. He owned his own business. He had a place to live. Random threats aside, he was safe.
It was almost too good to be true.
But damn if Blurr wasn't glad he had it.
