Blurr onlined with a tackiness between his thighs, a crimp in the lines of his backstrut, and shame warring with satisfaction. He groaned, rolled over, and right off the berth, landing with a clang on the floor.
Even more humiliating.
He forced his optics into a reboot. His sensors sluggishly stirred. Too much high grade. Too many overloads. Too much…
He was alone.
Blurr pushed himself upright, looking blearily around the berthroom. No Starscream. Nothing but rumpled padding and a cube of pale energon on a nearby shelf.
Blurr dragged himself to his pedes and slumped against the berth, rubbing a palm down his faceplate. He wished he could claim last night was a mystery. But he remembered it all, every overload, every kiss, every slick glide of Starscream’s spike and the sharp buzz of connected ports and then more high grade.
What in the Pit had he been thinking?
Short answer. He hadn’t been.
Blurr stood up, staggered over to the cube, and popped it open. He drank it down, grimacing at the strange aftertaste. It couldn’t be tainted. But when it hit his tanks, a rush of good feelings chased away some of the lingering doldrums of overcharge.
He might be able to start processing at his normal speed again.
Blurr slouched out of the berthroom and into the silent apartment, half expecting Starscream to be smirking at him from some corner. Well, he was only half-right. He didn’t get Starscream. Instead, he got the Lackey.
“Some bots jes can’t handle dere high grade,” Rattrap said from where lounged against a wall, arms crossed.
Blurr grimaced. “And some bots could use a trip to the washracks. Not to point any fingers.”
“What wuz dat about glass houses and rocks?” Rattrap gave a pointed look to Blurr’s frame.
He didn’t have to look down to know that he was covered in scratches, scrapes, dings, and splatters of transfluid and lubricant. But at least he didn’t reek of whatever hole Rattrap had crawled out of.
“Starscream got a washrack in this place?”
“Do I look like his servant?”
Blurr smirked, crossing his arms. The energon warmed his tanks like high grade but with none of the aftereffect. “Do you really want me to answer that?”
Red optics dimmed. Rattrap jerked his helm. “Through dat door.” He held up a hand, a small chip tucked between two fingers. “Got a message fer ya. Unless ya don’t want it.”
“Oh, so you’re not a servant. You’re a delivery bot.” Blurr dared step closer to the reeking mech. “Give it.”
Rattrap chuckled. “He got a way wit words, don’t he? Gets right under yer platin’.” He smirked. “In more ways than one.”
Blurr snatched the chip out of his hands, tucking it into an arm compartment. “You done?”
Rattrap pushed off the wall and turned away, flicking a hand over his shoulder.
Blurr frowned. Starscream had gone and left his lackey in place with a message? Curiosity compelled him.
He pulled out the chip and a datapad to read it even as he went through a doorway, in search of washracks. His comm system pinged him a message. From Jazz. Not a surprise. He put it in queue, the focus on Starscream’s message.
It was brief. It was an invitation. One Blurr was no longer disinclined to accept. Starscream wanted his assistance? His opinion? His regard?
Well, he would get it. But Blurr wanted something, too. Something more than just a night of multiple overloads and Starscream evasively hinting to his grand plan. Blurr wanted answers.
He would join Starscream for mid-orn energon.
He tucked the chip back into his arm compartment and spaced the datapad.
First, a bath. And then, reality.
Then he would see exactly who was playing who.