[TF] A Turmoil of Trust

Jazz doesn’t worry.

It’s not in his nature to worry. He doesn’t fret or get anxious. He’s a go with the flow sort of mech. He’s adaptability personified.

He doesn’t worry.

So what, then, is this feeling gnawing at his insides? Twisting and churning and tying him into knots?

He’d known Proteus would contact him. It was inevitable. It was why he’d finally grown the necessary struts and approached Optimus about the little tiny problem of his obedience coding. Optimus was getting ready to launch his first attack against the foundation of the institution, to make them realize he wasn’t here to demur to their antiquated ideas. Jazz couldn’t be a liability. So he’d addressed the problem.

Proteus’ ID code popping up in his comm queue still manages to catch Jazz by surprise. It makes a quiet trill of disquiet surge through Jazz’s lines. In two weeks, they’ll be in Polyhex for Optimus to address the Assembly. Proteus wants more than a status report, the likes of which Jazz has been dutifully sending since the coding was removed, all carefully falsified with Ultra Magnus and Prowl’s advice.

Proteus wants a face-to-face meeting, and Jazz is obligated to attend. His former master will not accept excuses. Jazz should be more than capable of sneaking away, and the implied punishment makes an echo of dread radiate through Jazz’s spark.

The message ends, and Jazz finds himself in the estate’s labyrinthine air vents.

Jazz doesn’t worry.

The clawing need to conceal himself is not worry. It’s instinct. It’s basic survival. It’s patterns of observation, note-taking, reflexively deleting what he learns as quickly as he observes it.

He moves from room to room, using the vents, avoiding the video feeds, silent footsteps and paint nanites adjusted to match the shadows. He feels like he’s in enemy territory, and it’s a foolish notion, but one he can’t shake.

Bluestreak and Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are currently in Sunstreaker’s sunroom. Sideswipe is flopped out on his belly, draped over Bluestreak’s legs, while Sunstreaker paints an elaborate design on Bluestreak’s twitching sensory panel. They look comfortable. Calm.

Easy targets.

No.

Jazz sets his jaw and claws down another vent, past Ironhide and Chromia sparring in another room, their fields thick with lust and excitement, vents purring their delight. He pauses to record because Proteus – stops himself, deletes the footage, and scuttles away.

Ratchet’s in the medical hall, bending over Smokescreen’s knee and making clicking sounds of dismay. Prowl oversees, face a mask, but his field bleeding concern. Smokescreen is full of smiles – a veneer, thin as it might be. Prowl has too many points of pressure here in the manor, brother and cousin. It wouldn’t take much to lean—

Jazz vents out hard, enough for it to echo, for Prowl’s sensory panel to twitch. He turns his head, up toward the vent, and Jazz is gone, gone, gone too fast for him to see. Straight to where Hot Rod and Starscream and Skywarp are making a mess of the kitchens. Hot Rod and Skywarp are giggling; Starscream looks like he’s re-considering his life choices.

Skywarp will be troublesome. He’ll have to be caught unaware, else he’ll activate his namesake and vanish before the knife can—

Jazz finds a dead-end in the vent and cycles several ventilations. He deletes. He empties out his primary memory. He re-establishes the stop-gap to his short-term. Just in case. Proteus can’t know. He mustn’t know.

Skyfire and Optimus Prime are in the library, heads bowed together as they debate over historical policy and precedent, datapads strewn across the table between them. They’re playing footsie beneath the table, and rumbling engines suggest their debate will next be taken to the berth. It’s been occurring with more frequency lately.

The Senate would enjoy that little tidbit of information. They’ll think it can be used to drive a wedge, perhaps once whispers of favoritism start making their way through the political scene. It’s good knowledge to have. Dangerous knowledge.

Jazz is not beholden to Proteus anymore, right? (Right.) He doesn’t have to keep tabs. He doesn’t have to stow this knowledge away. He’s free. He doesn’t have to delete it.

A tug-of-war makes Jazz curl into a ball, venting shakily. He’s free. He’ll never be free. What if he’s wrong? What if there’s something left? Some tiny little thread of programming that’ll activate the moment he’s standing in front of Proteus?

He has things to lose now. His growing friendship with Ratchet. The hard-won trust with Ravage and Laserbeak. The knowledge of the Sanctuary. The feelings in his spark for Soundwave, love or something like it.

He shouldn’t’ve done it. He shouldn’t have let himself believe. There’s too much at risk. If he goes back to Proteus now, all of that may turn to ash.

Jazz finds the nearest access point and eases out of the vents. For a moment, irrational replaces rational, and he thinks leaving is the best option. He’s standing in the medbay, looking up at Ratchet, revealing the biggest secret of his entire functioning. He’s—

–staring right at Ravage who’s staring back at him, curled up on the floor outside the vent access as if waiting. Ravage rises slowly, in a long stretch, and turns his optics on Jazz, his field betraying nothing.

“Soundwave is looking for you,” he says.

Jazz chews his own words for a second, wondering if Ravage can hear the clatter in his armor, then calling himself a fool. Of course Ravage can. His observational skills are second to none.

“It’s not… a good idea,” Jazz grounds out.

Ravage snorts and turns his back on Jazz as if there’s nothing to fear, tail flicking dismissively. “Let him be the judge of that.”

He pads away on silent footsteps, vanishing into the shadows, leaving no room for Jazz to argue. He can, of course, ignore Ravage. They are peers, if that, and Jazz is beholden to no one. But Jazz is not afraid, he is not worried, and he is not a coward.

Soundwave is not difficult to find. He’s in his quarters with Laserbeak nowhere in sight, and he’s waiting in the one berth of many he prefers. Jazz loiters in the doorway, the open floor between himself and Soundwave a dangerous landscape to cross.

“I wasn’t missing,” Jazz says, aiming for humor.

Soundwave gives him a look not dissimilar to the one from Ravage. “Jazz troubled.”

Jazz cycles a vent and stares at the ceiling, the swirls and patterns in the horrible textured paint. Why do all of the rich and powerful think it’s a good look? Because it’s not.

“I don’t worry,” he lies.

Soundwave rumbles at him, not a word, but disagreement all the same. “Join.”

“I’m filthy,” Jazz says and doesn’t move. It’s true. He’s covered in dust and debris from the vents and his other elusive efforts. There are streaks of white in the solid black he’s adapted.

“Berths can be cleaned,” Soundwave reminds him. He beckons. “Join,” he repeats, and rumbles a very specific rumble that Jazz knows vibrates through his entire frame.

Jazz knows he shouldn’t, but his feet move of their own accord, and he climbs into the berth, into Soundwave’s arms, before he can think of all the reasons it’s a bad idea. Their fields immediately tangle in the way of those who spend intimate time in one another’s company.

“Fine,” Jazz says as Soundwave embraces him, and some of the tension in Jazz’s cables immediately eases. “I’m troubled.”

Amusement flickers through Soundwave’s field. “Affirmative.” One hand strokes down Jazz’s spinal strut, fingers tracing transformation seams. “Query: Proteus?”

“… what if he’s not really gone from my head?” Jazz mumbles into Soundwave’s intake, rather than admit it to his partner’s face. “I know too much now.”

“Distrust Ratchet?”

“It’s not about whether I do or don’t trust Ratchet,” Jazz huffs and quickly glances over his shoulder, in case said irascible medic is listening and ready to pounce on anyone who doubts his capabilities. “But you can’t look for something if ya don’t know it’s there.”

Soundwave hums, acknowledging but not agreeing.

Jazz works his jaw, rolls the lingering fear around his tongue, and admits, “What if seeing Proteus, tasting his field, re-activates it? What if I’m not actually free?”

“Worry valid,” Soundwave says, which isn’t exactly what Jazz hoped to hear. As ridiculous and empty as it would be, he wants Soundwave to tell him everything will be all right.

It’s in neither of their natures to do it, however. Soundwave won’t lie to spare Jazz’s feelings, and Jazz wouldn’t believe it otherwise. They don’t treat each other like a mark. That was the first rule when they went from occasional berth buddies to admitting that real emotions had gotten involved.

They don’t treat each other like marks.

A little bit of friendly hacking and security testing is one thing. But they don’t play the game. They don’t pretend.

Soundwave knows as much as Jazz what’s at stake here. Which is why he’s the only one Jazz can trust to do what is necessary.

“I need a favor,” Jazz says.

“Yes.”

Jazz works his intake. “Ya didn’t let me ask.”

Soundwave cups a finger under his chin and tilts his face up. There’s a gleam in his visor, like resolve. “Answer: yes.”

Frag.

>>Jazz cycles a ventilation and stares Soundwave in the visor. “I want you to stop me,” he says, all trace of humor gone from his vocals, leaving no room for confusion. “If I’m still under his sway, if there’s any chance I’m not myself, take me out.”

It’s a cruel ask, Jazz knows. He and Soundwave have their understanding, a relationship hard fought through various insecurities and uncertainties and a turmoil of trust. Jazz knows he can rely on Soundwave to do what’s necessary without letting emotion or sentiment get in the way, but it’s still cruel of him to request it.

Soundwave’s finger strokes along his cheek, achingly gentle. “Understood,” he rumbles without any hesitation.

Relief pours through Jazz’s lines, dances a bright burst in his spark, cuts the knotted tension out of his limbs. He sags into Soundwave’s embrace and vents through every outflow. Like this, they’ll be safe. If even a hint of Proteus’ control remains, Soundwave will ensure no harm comes to anyone.

“Thanks,” Jazz murmurs as he turns his head into Soundwave’s palm, pressing a kiss to the warm derma.

“None needed.” Soundwave’s other hand rests on his waist, thumb stroking a soothing pattern over Jazz’s hip gimbal.

It’s a lot of trust he’s placing in Soundwave right now, but honestly, there’s no one else. He can’t express his fears to Ratchet – the medic would simply keep running tests to prove what Jazz already knows. He can’t worry Optimus about a problem which should already be solved. He can’t rely on any of the others to both know what to look for and respond appropriately. Soundwave is the only one who can neutralize Jazz without making a production of it.

Jazz can’t lose any of this. He can’t lose the change Optimus is going to fight to instill. He can’t lose his new friendships with Ratchet and Hot Rod and Smokescreen. He won’t bring harm to Ravage and Laserbeak, their trust and loyalty so hard-won and all the more valuable for it.

Jazz reaches out with his free hand and pulls Soundwave toward him, slotting their mouths together in a kiss as Soundwave’s mask clicks aside at the last second. A flash of vulnerability as important as the trust Jazz has given him in return.

The emotional need swiftly turns physical, and Jazz moans as he presses against Soundwave, harder into his arms, seeking physical reassurance against the emotional disquiet. He wants Soundwave against him, inside him, wrapped around him, in a way he’s never allowed anyone else before. He doesn’t ask for anything but Soundwave’s spike, sinking into him, and the careful way Soundwave’s fingers trace his armor, like he’s something delicate. Something worth protecting.

It’ll be days yet before Jazz has to meet Proteus and feign both loyalty and subservience. Until then, Jazz plans on spending every waking moment in Soundwave’s arms.

Jazz will not lose the one thing in his life he’s let himself choose. He’d rather tear out his own spark first. He won’t let Proteus take anything else from him.

He will not lose Soundwave.

And he’ll do whatever it takes to protect this future.

***

[TF] Research and Development

Rumor has it there’s a new recruit, which in itself, isn’t that unusual. The Decepticon resistance has swelled its ranks exponentially these cycles as more and more mechs realize Cybertron isn’t going to change anytime soon. Not unless they rise up and do something about it.

This new mech though. Scuttlebutt is that Megatron recruited him personally, and that’s the kind of mech Skywarp has to meet. Anyone who’s caught Megatron’s attention has to be worth knowing. More than that, though, they must be worth testing. Tasting. That sort of thing.

Skywarp’s particularly good at testing. Which is why he’s currently in the section of the old, abandoned factory they’ve partitioned for use for the scientists. The new recruit is supposed to be some hotshot physicist who’s finally going to give that stodgy old Shockwave some competition. They might even get some fancy new weapons to show that Senate who they really should fear.

Skywarp only gets lost two or three times while he’s in the science warehouse. Usually, he’s only here for Keystroke to run one of many, many tests in a desperate attempt to duplicate Skywarp’s warping capabilities. But Keystroke’s lab is not the same as the new Seeker’s lab, and Skywarp has a map, but somehow, he keeps making wrong turns.

Getting distracted is what Thundercracker would say. Feh.

Skywarp pauses at a T-intersection, consults his map, and turns to the left. He’s pretty sure Starscream – that’s the new recruit’s designation – has his laboratory in this direction. Skywarp hasn’t laid optics on Starscream yet, but he’s heard the new Seeker is absolutely gorgeous, not to mention brilliant. And well, how can Skywarp resist that kind of package?

He’s got to see for himself. Starscream sounds like the kind of mech Skywarp absolutely has to taste. Thus wandering around the research center. Only getting lost twice.

Skywarp finds himself at a dead-end, frowns, and looks at his map again.

Okay. Three times.

A course correction later, Skywarp finally stands outside the laboratory with the shiny new nameplate on the outside – Starscream. He’s in the right place. Yes! He pumps a fist into the air and palms the door open.

It refuses with a blat.

Well. A locked door isn’t going to stop Skywarp. He’s one of the few mechs in the entirety of the Decepticon resistance that it can’t stop.

Vorrrp.

Skywarp pops past the door and pretends to dust himself off. Ah, that never gets old. Tingly all over, a feeling like the world pulls sideways, and then he’s wherever he imagined himself to be. Luckily, he finally got the hang of warping to the other side of doors. Most of them are the same thickness but some of them.

Some of them aren’t and owww.

Anyway. This is a small lab compared to the one Keystroke haunts, and there’s only one mech visible at the massive console that takes up half the limited space in here. He’s a Seeker all right, with those pretty, pretty wings and his thruster-heels. He’s shiny all over, like fresh off the assembly line, and his armor is a lovely mix of gray and red and blue.

Mmm. Skywarp really wants to lick those blue stripes and his red hip assembly practically screams ‘frag me’. It’s begging for attention.

“Wow. You’re gorgeous,” Skywarp says before his processor catches up with his mouth and realizes, oops, maybe he should introduce himself first? He did kind of invite himself inside.

Most mechs here would greet that kind of thing with a blaster. Skywarp’s been shot a few times, much to Thundercracker’s exasperation and Hook’s glee.

Starscream, however, only gives him a brief glance with some coal-fire crimson optics before he says, “I was informed I’d get an assistant. Is that you?”

Oh, his voice. His voice is this sharp raspy thing, like he’s used his vocalizer past the point of no return one too many times, but it’s tone that’s the thing. This tone of absolute confidence that makes Skywarp shiver all over.

Then Skywarp rewinds and replays what Starscream actually said.

“Wait. Your assistant? No way.” Skywarp shakes his hands and his head. “I’m not allowed near this stuff.” He tucks his hands behind his back and inches closer. “I’m Skywarp.”

“I’ve heard of you.” Starscream turns his full attention back to the console, images popping up all over the massive monitor. “Keystroke’s project, right? The teleporter.”

Skywarp beams. “That’s me!” He peers up at the screen, but he can’t make sense of the equations and glyphs flashing across it. Whatever Starscream’s working on, it’s advanced stuff. He at least kind of understand’s Keystroke’s babble.

Skywarp can calculate vertices and physics faster than most mechs can add and subtract. He kind of needs to in order to warp places without blowing himself to bits. But that stuff on the screen is beyond him. It’s not physics. It’s something else. Though he does recognize the schematics for some kind of a weapon – a really powerful blaster maybe.

“He hasn’t asked my advice yet. But he will,” Starscream says as if it’s a foregone conclusion. There’s a touch of a smirk in the corner of his lips and frag yeah, Skywarp loves him a mech with confidence.

“You want to do experiments on me?” Skywarp asks. Maybe bind him down, strap him up, immobilize him? Oh, that sounds kind of nice actually. Especially if Starscream then climbs on top of him, rides him, too?

Starscream’s wings flick up and then down. “Eventually. Though I’m far too busy for it right now.” He shifts his weight, hips cocking to one side. Skywarp only notices because he can’t drag his gaze away from those hips.

“Doing what?”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t understand,” Starscream says with a sniff and a twitch of his wings that raises them up – proud and arrogant.

He hasn’t so much as turned and given Skywarp a second look. His hands haven’t stopped moving across the input system, and how he’s managing to keep up a conversation plus those equations on the screen is fragging amazing. He’s some kind of genius.

Still. Skywarp came here for a reason, and a little bit of a cold shoulder isn’t enough to deter him. Starscream’s standoffish, but he hasn’t told Skywarp to leave, and Decepticons tend to be real slagging firm when they want to be left alone. Skywarp has a few dents and paint-gouges to prove it.

“Well, I think you ought to take a break,” he says as he leans in close, reaching out with warm, inviting tendrils of his field. Just a tentative touch. Testing the jetstream, so to speak.

“I’m fine,” Starscream says in a tone so flat it has to be practiced.

Skywarp nudges a little harder, gets his first taste of Starscream’s field, which is as chilly and indifferent as the mech himself. “Are you sure? I’d love to welcome you to the Decepticons properly. If you get my drift.” He winks and sends a shiver through his field.

Subtlety? This is as much as Skywarp can manage. It worked on Thundercracker, for all that he complains Skywarp has all the nuance of a brick to the head.

Starscream, however, doesn’t bite. “I’m too busy to indulge you,” he sniffs, but oh-ho, what’s this?

Starscream’s field reaches back out, warm and just a bit buzzy on the edges. Like he’s interested but doesn’t want to say it. Like he’s laying out a challenge.

Skywarp can never resist a good challenge.

“You should find someone else to bother,” Starscream says aloud, but his field says stay, stay, stay.

Delicious.

“Awww.” Skywarp leans closer, gets a whiff of the sweet-tangy polish Starscream laved all over his armor, and heat stirs in his belly. It’s like Starscream wants to be licked. “You shouldn’t work so hard. There’s time to have fun, too. You know?”

Starscream’s head tilts away from him, just so, his gaze locked on the screen. “Mmm,” he hums, dismissive, disinterested. His field, however, doesn’t withdraw. The curliest edges wrap around Skywarp’s seeking tendrils and tug.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, friends.

Skywarp sidles closer and gives in to the urge to drag a fingertip along the leading edge of Starscream’s wing – a sensitive spot for most Seekers. He feels the resulting shiver in Starscream’s field and sees the tiniest twitch in the tessellated plates along the back of Starscream’s wing.

“Gorgeous,” Skywarp murmurs and licks his lips to hide the fact he’s this close to drooling. Starscream’s field is five flavors of heat, his polish smells too damn good, and Skywarp swears those painted lines are done to deliberately draw the optic to multiple erogenous zones.

Starscream, however, says, “Do I look like I want to be bothered?” in a waspish tone, even as his wing tilts and pushes toward Skywarp’s hand.

Such a contrary mech, he is.

“You look like you need to be bothered,” Skywarp says.

He’s never been great at resisting temptation, so he leans in and takes a nip at the very tip of Starscream’s wing, at the end of a thick red line.

“Why don’t you let me?” Skywarp purrs as the sweet tang of the polish dances on his tongue “I’m told I’m pretty good at it.”

“This job is important,” Starscream says, but his ventilations hitch, and even to Skywarp, it’s a weak argument. His wing has gone still under Skywarp’s mouth, and his armor has lifted away from his substructure as if to vent heat.

So it’s like that, is it?

Delight floods Skywarp’s spark. He embraces Starscream from behind, and his grin widens when he realizes he’s just a touch broader, a touch taller, a touch bigger in every way. His hands fit perfectly on the new Seeker’s hips, and the tiny thrum of Starscream’s engine vibrates through his whole frame.

“Come on,” he cajoles as his fingers slide along armor seams. “Lemme eat you out at least. Bet you taste good.”

Starscream cycles a vent. “I… I am very busy,” he says, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

More importantly! He’s not saying no. He’s not pushing Skywarp away. He’s not powering up either of those cute little blasters on his lower arms. Fascinating.

Skywarp presses up against him, their armor coming into delicious contact, and Starscream shivers in his arms. Skywarp grins, ex-venting over the back of Starscream’s audial as he murmurs, “Don’t let me stop you from working then. Just open right up and I’ll take care of everything.”

A sigh gusts out of Starscream’s vents as if he’s been beset by a very irritating kremzeek, but what Skywarp hears next isn’t Starscream demanding he leave. It’s the distinct click of a valve panel opening, and Skywarp knows it’s not his own. He slips one hand between Starscream’s thighs and purrs when his fingers find plump valve folds and slide into sticky heat.

Oh, he’s too busy, is he? But this sweet little valve of his wants to take a break, doesn’t it? Skywarp grins and curves his fingers into Starscream, seeking out every charged node to say hello. Starscream shivers and sags, thighs inching apart to make more room. The clickity-clack of his fingers on the board have all but stopped.

Skywarp gives in and licks the back of Starscream’s wing, tasting the thin blue stripe and mmm. He nibbles on the edge of an aileron, and Starscream’s engine purrs at him. Yummy.

“Enough,” Starscream hisses as his hands slam onto the desk, fingers curving, talons scraping a thin furrow into the surface. “Stop wasting time and frag me already.” He pitches forward, aft tilted up, like he’s presenting himself.

“Well,” Skywarp purrs as he flicks his fingers over Starscream’s anterior node. “If you insist.” He grinds against Starscream’s aft and sighs as his spike extends, the head tasting Starscream’s valve.

Starscream huffs and shoves his aft back, impatient and hungry. He’s still staring at the screen, but the steady scrawl of calculations have stopped. Skywarp grins and rolls his hips, sinking to the hilt in Starscream. He groans as he’s eclipsed by molten heat, and Starscream tightens down around him, calipers twitching hungrily.

Skywarp licks his lips and plants a hand on Starscream’s back, between his wing mounts. “You’re busy,” he teases as he pumps his hips into Starscream’s delicious valve. “I’ll make it quick.” He pushes down, flattening Starscream across his desk, and Starscream goes willingly.

Well, mostly.

Starscream hisses, and his wings twitch as he snarls, “Irritating pest,” but it’s immediately followed by a moan and a clench and a shudder, so Skywarp’s having a hard time believing the insult.

Especially when Starscream digs his talons into the desk and pushes back against Skywarp, shoving Skywarp’s spike deeper. There’s a secondary click as Starscream’s spike emerges, though Skywarp can’t see it, and the head of it must be grinding against the desk. Nice.

“Harder!” Starscream demands as his valve spirals tighter and clutches eagerly at Skywarp’s spike, his field an electric pulse of want, want, want.

Skywarp is delighted to oblige. He grabs Starscream by the hips and increases his pace, slamming harder and harder into Starscream with each thrust. The other Seeker gasps and cants his hips so Skywarp can go deeper, and his wing plates shiver. Blue charge licks out from beneath his armor.

“Shouldn’t you be – hnggh – working?” Skywarp can’t help but tease as he slams into Starscream and then circles his hips, grinding deep against Starscream’s ceiling node.

“Shut up!” Starscream pants and pushes back into each thrust, lubricant squeezing out around Skywarp’s spike to slick his thighs. “Harder, damn it.”

Skywarp grins and licks his lips. “I can do that.” He increases his pace, long and deep strokes designed to make all those nodes sing.

Ohh, it makes Starscream sing, too. He tosses his head back, moans, and his valve cycles hungrily around Skywarp’s spike. He’s hot and twitchy, field wrapping tight around Skywarp and refusing to let him be. Clearly, Starscream hasn’t been fragged enough if he’s this hungry.

Skywarp shudders and sinks into Starscream, again and again, Starscream’s nodes feeding his spike sensors charge burst after charge burst. It twists and turns inside Skywarp, making his lines thrum and his internals tighten. It feels too damn good, and Starscream’s too damn pretty.

Frag.

Skywarp shudders and blats out static as he shoves deep and spurts into Starscream’s valve, the overload sending streaks across his vision. Oh, damn that’s good. He rolls his hips, drawing out the waves of ecstasy, feeding Starscream every drop. He presses deep and lingers, twitching.

“You’re not done!” Starscream snarls with impatient bucks of his hips. “Are you as selfish as you are irritating?”

“Sheesh, do you ever stop complaining?” Skywarp asks, purely rhetorical, as he withdraws and pulls Starscream a few inches away from the console. “Don’t worry. I got this.”

“You had better!” Starscream hisses.

Skywarp rolls his optics, grabs Starscream and spins him around. Starscream stumbles at the unexpected show of strength – Skywarp’s way stronger than he lets people know about – and his aft bumps the edge of the console as Skywarp drops to his knees. Oh, Starscream’s spike is as pretty as he is, and Skywarp licks his lips and presses a kiss to the tip.

Starscream makes a strangled noise. No smart remark? Skywarp looks up and sees Starscream’s optics dark and hungry.

Skywarp winks and sucks Starscream down, all the way to the root, in a single swallow. Starscream’s grip on the edge of the console crumples the metal. He gasps, tosses his head back, tries to buck, but Skywarp’s holding him in place. He manages two, three squeezes of his intake and then Starscream’s helplessly spilling into his mouth, spurt after spurt of transfluid.

Yup.

Still got it.

Skywarp suckles at Starscream a little longer, until Starscream squirms from the overstimulation. Only then does Skywarp let Starscream slip from his mouth with a parting kiss to the softening length.

Skywarp stands, licking his lips clean. “Good?” he asks as he gets his hands on those pretty hips and between Starscream’s thighs, nuzzling into Starscream’s intake. He inhales and brushes his lips over Starscream’s cables.

Starscream huffs and turns his head away, nose turned up. “I’m now behind in my work.” He spins away from Skywarp, nearly slapping him with a wing, and turns his attention back to his console.

Such a contrary Seeker. Fortunately, Skywarp likes a challenge.

“My sincere apologies,” Skywarp lies as he thumbs a small drop of escaped transfluid from the corner of his mouth. He wonders if he can convince Starscream for a second round. He still really wants to get his mouth on Starscream’s valve.

The monitor flashes. Glyphs and calculations scroll across the screen. Starscream’s wings twitch, and then he says, “Well?”

Skywarp cycles his optics. “Well what?” Is Starscream after an apology? Praise?

“Did I pass your ridiculous test?” Starscream demands with a brief glance over his shoulder. “Is that not why you bothered me?”

It takes Skywarp a fraction of a second too long to understand what the frag Starscream is talking about, and then he can’t help but laugh. “Wait, did you take that seriously?”

Embarrassment screams in Starscream’s field, but his mouth sets itself into a fierce scowl. “Of course not!” he snaps. “I was recruited by Megatron personally. Your opinion doesn’t matter to me at all.” He whips back around to face his computer, his field a mix of offended and embarrassed, his wings all twitchy.

Adorable.

Skywarp drags a finger along the edge of the wing he hasn’t tasted yet and grins as Starscream visibly shivers. “You definitely pass,” he says. “Wanna grab some engex later? My treat.”

Starscream sniffs, but his wing twitches nearer to Skywarp’s hand. “It’s the least you can do to make up for your rude behavior. Now go. I’m busy.” He stares extra hard at his computer and plucks at the board with extra slow precision.

Oh, ho. That attitude might fool someone else, but it’s too late. Skywarp has gotten a taste and now he wants more. He’s seen Starscream melt on his spike and beg for it faster, harder, and more.

No way is he letting Starscream slip through his fingers. He can’t wait to tell Thundercracker about this.

Skywarp grins and sees himself out.

This time, he only gets lost once.

***

[TF] Insufficient Funds

Blaster is running out of money.

Worse, Blaster is running out of money and his best friend has let himself be sold to the new Prime all for the sake of the Sanctuary. Blaster can’t even do him the courtesy of not running it to the ground in Soundwave’s absence. Soundwave has sacrificed everything, and still, Blaster is running out of money.

Everything costs creds these days. It’s not just the energon. It’s the parts, the lubricants, the supplies. It’s bribing guards to look the other way when they’re sneaking refugees over borders. It’s paying medics for much needed repairs. It’s paying for new identities, and refitting frames so that they are unrecognizable. It’s paying for fares to colonies too far from Cybertron for the wealthy to reach.

It’s a lot of things that Blaster simply doesn’t have the creds to cover. His kin suffer, and Blaster can only do triage. Save this one over that one because it’s cheaper or easier or… or…

His tank churns.

Blaster shoves away his energon with the tip of his finger. Some of his kin are starving to death in the gutters. Others have been used and abused until they are nothing but shells of their former selves, empty slaves to the whims of the elite.

Soundwave’s fate now.

He’s spent his whole functioning trying to protect their kin from such an outcome and now, he’d walked with his head held high straight into the worst one of them all. Their new Prime. How can Blaster think of consuming energon at a time like this?

He can’t. Thus the reason he’s pushed away the energon for the time being. His levels aren’t near critical. He’ll save it for the bits to share. Steeljaw’s probably going to hit his last quote-unquote growth spurt soon. He needs it more.

There are a lot of mechs who need it, truth be told.

Blaster has only to stare at the datapad with its increasingly negative balance to know that much. More designations, more refugees, more carriers desperate to escape their circumstances. Used to be this small operation was enough. The odd carrier here and there found themselves abused, but it wasn’t so common. It wasn’t an everyday occurrence.

Rising costs were the reason Soundwave indebted himself to Ratbat in the first place. Ratbat had promised, in that simpering, greasy tone of his, that so long as Soundwave served him faithfully, the Sanctuary would receive a certain amount of funds on a monthly basis.

And he’s kept his word, such that it is.

Soundwave’s not here. Soundwave’s in the clutches of the newest Prime, offline for all Blaster knows, because Ratbat commanded it. Ratbat has made the deposit into the proper account, like he’s supposed to. It’s just not enough. Not anymore. And relying on Ratbat to keep his word is tenuous.

Blaster does his best. He wheedles his way into discounts. He makes back-alley deals with questionable suppliers. He waters down the energon and recycles the lubricants and grudgingly, achingly allows the medics to part out those who didn’t quite make it so that those who did can survive a little bit longer.

He keeps a ledger. Not even Soundwave knows about this ledger, but it’s a list of designations. Those who didn’t make it. The carriers. The cassettes. It feels like the list of the fallen is longer than the list of those saved these days.

Soundwave’s doing his best, and Blaster’s letting him down.

He knows he shouldn’t. It’s not helpful. But Blaster reaches into a locked drawer and withdraws the small datapad Ratbat had left in the dropbox, his only means of contact with Soundwave’s “special project” as he calls it.

Soundwave is keeping up his end of the bargain. Ratbat’s irritating simper comes through the glyph text without Blaster having to hear his voice. His obedience maintains our agreement.

It’s painfully brief and lacks any detail. Blaster assumes Soundwave is alive, but that means little given what Blaster knows of how Primes treat their Consorts. Zeta was infamous for going through his Consorts like they were disposable toys. No one had ever caught a glimpse of Nominus’ Consorts, and that, in itself, was cause for concern.

What does Soundwave suffer? It is impossible to know. The Prime has been on his “honeymoon” for close to three weeks now, and there’ve been no updates, no pictures, no reports. Nothing but silence. Oh, the speculation has been rampant, and Blaster admits his attention has been glued to every news article hoping for a hint of what’s happening behind those doors.

Primus, he’s exhausted. When was the last time he recharged? Maybe before he watched Soundwave get on that transport along with the eight other Consorts and those doors closed behind him. The last time he’d seen his dear friend intact.

A gentle tap alerts Blaster to Steeljaw rousing, so he pops his dock and lets the feline cassette emerge. Steeljaw transforms and lands on Blaster’s desk with a jaw-cracking yawn and a long stretch of his spinal strut.

“Feel better?” Blaster asks with a scritch behind Steeljaw’s mane that he only allows from Blaster and no one else, not even his siblings.

Steeljaw flicks an audial. “No. Your brooding was too loud.”

“I was not brooding,” Blaster huffs. He shoves the datapad with Ratbat’s message back into the drawer where it belongs. “I was administrating.”

“You were brooding. Worrying, actually, about Soundwave,” Steeljaw says with that long, felinid stare that tends to look right through Blaster. For all that he’s the youngest of Blaster’s cassettes, he’s often the most wise. “You’re doing the best you can, you know.”

Blaster nudges the energon cube he’d abandoned earlier back toward Steeljaw. “Drink this,” he says, avoiding the compliment. “You’ll need it.”

Steeljaw sighs but accepts the cube and diligently drinks it without any further coaxing on Blaster’s part. A tiny bit of tension unkinks from between Blaster’s shoulders, though he only has to glance at the expense report on his desk to feel his cables twisting into knots once more.

What the frag is he going to do?

Ping.

‘You have a new deposit in your account.’ The announcement in a tinny, mechanical voice emerges from the console speakers, barely audible in Blaster’s office. Usually, he has it on mute because the constant notifications from his many apps and communication programs start to get irritating.

Blaster grumbles subvocally and hits the mute button until he rewinds and replays exactly what the notification had said. He’s got a new what now?

Blaster sits up in his chair, feet hitting the floor, and navigates to the pop-up. A new deposit. That doesn’t make any sense. Ratbat’s already given his contribution for the month and they have no other donors. Is it a mistake?

He pulls up the account, and his spark drops into his tanks. He sits back in his chair and stares at both the screen and the amount. A few minutes ago, he’d been inching toward a negative balance as he debated between two separate purchases. Now there are enough creds to cover the monthly costs and then some. It’s three times the amount Ratbat deigns to donate.

No. This can’t be right.

Blaster investigates further. The donor is anonymous, which is impossible. No one knows about this account. Even Ratbat’s donations are made through proxy accounts that Blaster has to manually transfer into this particular account through secure servers that Soundwave and he worked together to protect.

They’re supposed to be impenetrable. Why would someone hack an account to deposit money into it? This doesn’t make sense. Is it a trap? An accident?

Blaster clicks on the deposit. He doesn’t recognize the account number’s origin, save that it’s a bank in Iacon. He doesn’t personally know anyone in Iacon. It’s the political seat of power for all Cybertron with plenty of faces to recognize. Yet, Blaster can’t think of a single mech who both knows about The Sanctuary and cares enough to anonymously donate tens of thousands of creds to keep it going.

Wait.

All digital cred transfers allow for small notations on the transactions. Most of the time, mechs don’t bother, but this time, someone did.

It’s a nonsense stream of glyphs. Anyone else would look at it and see gibberish, but Blaster doesn’t. He picks them apart, imagines the separating dashes only he or Soundwave would know to slide in between the glyphs.

“Boss?”

Blaster looks up at Steeljaw, something like hope brimming deep in his spark. “Grab our copy of the Covenant of Primus, would you, kiddo?”

“Really?” Steeljaw’s field bursts with surprise, but he leaps down from the desk and digs in one of the crates for the datapad.

“I hope so,” Blaster says. He drums his fingers on the desk, one foot tapping as he waits. It only takes a few minutes of rummaging before Steeljaw returns with the datapad clamped between his denta.

Blaster sucks in a deep ventilation and starts to translate. He and Soundwave spent a long time on this code. Soundwave picked the book, but Blaster picked the codex. Chapter number, page number, word number. Bit by bit, plucking out a message that no one else can understand, for when they need to communicate semi-publically. When there’s a risk of their communication being intercepted.

Safe.

Relief crashes down on Blaster, and he sags in his chair like he can’t hold himself up anymore. Safe. Soundwave’s safe. For whatever definition of the word, he’s safe enough to send Blaster this message.

He keeps going, referencing the datapad with every transmitted glyph in the transaction’s notation, for the four remaining words.

Donation. Mine. Recurring. Trust.

Heat prickles at the back of Blaster’s optics. He sets down the datapad and tilts his head back against the chair, offlining his optics. He cycles several slow ventilations, letting himself soak in the relief.

He can trust the creds. He doesn’t know what Soundwave did to earn them, but he trusts Soundwave when he says he’s safe. He trusts Soundwave to only give what he can afford to spare.

“Good news?” Steeljaw asks as he bumps up under Blaster’s dangling hand, giving it a nuzzle.

Blaster manages a smile and onlines his optics. “The best news we could have hoped for.” He looks down at his symbiote. “Soundwave is still alive, and we have enough credits to keep going.”

Steeljaw purrs and says, “Very good news.” He bumps Blaster’s hand one last time before trotting toward the door. “I’ll tell Rewind and Eject so both of them stop fretting. Maybe think about taking a nap, boss.”

Blaster barks a helpless laugh. “Since when did you turn into a nannybot?”

“Always been,” Steeljaw says with a flick of his tail before he’s gone out the door.

Well, he’s not wrong.

Blaster scrubs the heels of his hands against his optics and cycles several more ventilations. Five words. That’s it. Five words and his world puts itself back into order. The Sanctuary isn’t doomed to failure. He can keep helping his kin. He can keep going for a little longer.

And Soundwave is as safe as he can be.

Thank Primus.

***

[TF] Friendly Fornication

Ratchet’s back ached.

His back ached, and his feet throbbed. There was a crick in his neck, and he couldn’t stop yawning. There was an itch under his left shoulderblade, and he desperately needed a long, hot soak and a gallon of mead and to sleep for two days straight.

He would settle for a soak.

Post-mating season was the busiest time of the year for a healer. Unless, of course, there was a chigger infestation, or it was cold and flu season – baras were the worst patients. They whined like no tomorrow when their noses dripped, and their throats swelled.

Ratchet considered, again, asking Liege Megatron to attempt recruiting another healer to their flock. Ratchet was in sore need of, at the very least, an assistant.

He rubbed the back of his neck as he trudged down the ramp to the lowest level. He passed very few other harpies. This time of the night, most of the Aerie was still and silent, everyone asleep, warm and cozy in their nests. Save for the guards at the front entrance and on the roof at least.

Ratchet should have been in bed an hour ago.

He grumbled as he swept into the hot springs, absently noting that there was no guard outside, therefore he wouldn’t be interrupting anyone. A quick sweep of the interior reassured him that the springs were deserted. He would have peace and quiet at last.

Ratchet moved to slide into the nearest pool when he caught the sound of splashing. It came from one of the more private pools on the other side of a natural rock outcropping. He absolutely intended to ignore it, but the splashing got louder, and honestly, Ratchet wouldn’t put it past Frenzy and Rumble to have snuck out from under Soundwave’s watchful nose to get up to some mischief.

A quick investigation wouldn’t hurt. Besides, Ratchet would have to throttle a couple of younglings if he found his resting soak interrupted by a pair of pranksters.

Ratchet hauled himself around the stones, peering into the next pool, a chastisement on his lips.

It quickly died, crumbling to dust, as he caught sight of who was in the private pool.

Hint: it was not Frenzy and Rumble.

Instead, Drift and Perceptor were present, and they were only bathing in the sense that the two of them were in the water. Mostly. Only Drift’s knees, lower legs, and feet were in the pool as his rump was perched on a ledge. Perceptor stood between his legs, and he had his mouth on Drift’s clava.

Drift was quietly whimpering as he cradled Perceptor’s head, hips rolling toward his mate’s mouth, his feathers twitching and fluffing in a show of pleasure. He visibly shivered as Perceptor drew back, suckling on the tip of Drift’s clava with audible noises.

“Stop teasing me, babe,” Drift demanded breathily, his fingers carding through Perceptor’s plumage. “Let me come!”

Perceptor let Drift slip free of his mouth, the pale red length dotted with streaks of silvery-grey. “I don’t know,” he teased with a quiet chuckle. “I quite like the sound of you begging.”

“Oh, for Adaptus’ sake!” Ratchet snapped, anger and arousal both tightening into a knot in his belly. “Couldn’t you two have gotten a tryst guard at least?”

They didn’t even have the grace to startle. Instead they both looked up at him, Perceptor with sly mischief, Drift with a face flushed from arousal.

“Oops,” Drift said, grinning. Not the least bit chastened.

Ratchet rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to growl at them. “I’ll stand guard until you’re done,” he grumbled. He supposed he could have his soak later.

Perceptor hummed and licked a long stripe up Drift’s clava, tongue flicking over the slick beading at the tip. “Are you sure?”

Drift arched his back, pushing his clava toward Perceptor’s mouth, and whining when Perceptor drew back. “You could always join us,” he gasped. “Maybe you’ll actually let me come. Ow.”

Perceptor nipped the tip of Drift’s clava, his eyes glittering. “I admit, Drift’s a needy one,” he said, conversational, as though his mate’s clava wasn’t bobbing in front of his lips, still wet from his mouth. “Sometimes, I just can’t handle him myself.”

Drift’s throat bobbed. “Very needy,” he agreed.

Temptation whispered dirty things into Ratchet’s ear. It’d been a long time since he’d felt anything but his own hands or a pillow against his bits.

“Right,” Ratchet snorted, but it held less indignation than he would have liked. “So I can get caught with the two of you.”

Perceptor leaned forward, licked a long line up the length of Drift’s clava. “Tracks is out there,” he said conversationally, as though Drift didn’t clutch at him and moan, trying to pull Perceptor’s mouth back toward him.

Ratchet’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t see him. Where–” Realization struck him like a lightning bolt. He pursed his lips at their audacity. “This is a trap?”

Drift arched his back, the tip of his clava painting Perceptor’s lips with his slick. “Would we – hnn – do that?” he asked.

Obviously a rhetorical question, as it wouldn’t be the first time the two mates had ensnared someone with their lecherous and utterly irresistible ways.

“Yes,” Ratchet said, rolling his eyes.

Perceptor rose up, ignoring Drift’s whine of protest, one dripping hand moving to cup Drift’s groin. “Then there’s no harm in joining us,” he said.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Drift reminded Ratchet before his back arched. He gasped, hips rocking against his mate’s palm.

“No, it wouldn’t,” Perceptor agreed.

He grabbed Drift’s hips and tugged him off the lip of the ledge. They splashed into the water, which glittered on their feathers quite invitingly. Ratchet would admit that he watched them, lust tightening in his belly, as Perceptor brushed his lips over Drift’s before he spun his mate around to face the ledge.

He pressed against Drift’s back, one hand sliding up to cup Drift’s jaw, a thumb sweeping over his lips. The other ventured downward, skipping past Drift’s clava to rub gently over Drift’s antrum and nub. Drift’s talons clawed at the ledge, a keen warbling in his throat.

“Can’t you see how lonely his mouth is?” Perceptor purred as he stroked Drift’s lips, which had parted.

Amber eyes slid to Ratchet, a look of yearning on Drift’s face. Like he really wouldn’t mind if Ratchet plopped himself right there and slid his clava into the welcoming warmth of Drift’s mouth.

Ratchet took a step forward before he knew what he was doing. He caught himself and set his mouth in a stern line. “I’m not going to be pulled into your rhythm,” he snapped.

He spun on a heel, determined to leave. He’d bathe in the morning.

Behind him, Drift moaned, and Ratchet swore all of his feathers stood on end. The sound was like a hook in his ear, trying to tug him backward. He told himself not to look. Therein lay only madness.

Water splashed. Drift’s moan shifted in tone, higher pitch, better a warble.

Ratchet muttered a curse. He turned, ever so slowly, gaze helplessly falling to the two mates in the pool. While their lower halves were under water and mostly obscured, it was obvious that Perceptor had taken his mate, given the rhythm of his hips. He was nibbling on the back of Drift’s nape, one hand moving beneath the surface of the water, the other cupping Drift’s chin.

Ratchet’s groin throbbed. Heat exploded in his veins and his knees wobbled. His mouth watered.

This was unfair.

“You look a little tense, doctor,” Perceptor murmured against his mate’s neck. He looked up at Ratchet, eyes amused and heated. “You could use some stress relief, in my professional opinion.”

“I’m good at stress relief,” Drift gasped, his tongue flicking over his lips, blue eyes limpid with arousal. His gaze tracked up Ratchet’s body like he’d found something to his liking, something he wanted to consume. “Very, very good.”

By Adaptus, they were tempting.

He should tell them no. He should slink off to a bath, wash himself, and then drag his tired feathers back to his nest and sleep.

Ratchet didn’t do any of the things he should do.

Instead, he turned his feet toward their bath, the weight of their gazes dialing the heat inside him to an inferno. His clava ached within its sheath, and the slow drag of Drift’s tongue over his lips looked like an invitation.

“Please?” Drift purred with his wide, hungry eyes and Perceptor looking over his shoulder like Unicron incarnate.

“You two are going to be the death of me,” Ratchet said with a defeated sigh, but the crook of his lips, the hint of a smile, belied his complaint.

He had to put up a protest to keep appearances.

“A little death or two,” Drift corrected with a smirk.

Perceptor laughed and nipped the back of his mate’s ear. “Get over here and use his mouth before he says something else, Ratchet,” he said.

And well.

Ratchet was many things, but a fool not among them.

***

[FF7] The Nurse Is In

It had been precisely five days since Rude had broken his leg, and with rest and a daily potion, he’d decreased his recovery time significantly enough to earn both he and Reno two days off without their superiors complaining about it.

After all, if they assumed Rude was still healing, they wouldn’t demand either Rude or Reno return to work. While Rude was fond of his job, he was fonder of two whole days spent lazing around his apartment, sleeping in when he could, eating whatever he wanted, and best of all, spending said time with his partner.

If he could convince Reno to sit still anyway.

Rude tore off the contraption keeping his leg immobilized to ensure the bone would set properly and threw it across the room. There were imprints in his bare skin from the buckles and clamps, but at least he was free of the damned thing. So he climbed out of bed and stretched, flexing his leg with a satisfying extension of his muscles and only the slightest twinge of pain. Certainly nothing he hadn’t ignored before.

Finally.

Rude fought off a yawn and scratched at his belly as he headed for the living room. Reno left a few hours ago because he had to get ‘something’ and wouldn’t elaborate on what that was, so Rude probably had at least an hour of blissful peace and quiet before his partner descended like a crimson tornado.

His stomach grumbled.

Food would probably be in order, too. Maybe they had some pizza left over from last night? Rude’s certain Reno hadn’t gotten groceries, which meant the kitchen was under-stocked. He’d have to go out later for the necessities.

Rude pulled open his door and was promptly met in the face by one of the cushions from his couch.

“What’re you doin’ out of bed!” Reno demanded with a pitch Rude only heard from his partner in moments of extreme duress. “And where’s your damn brace?”

The cushion hit the floor. Rude rubbed at the bridge of his nose and stared into the living room. Then he stared for a moment more.

He… was awake, yes? He wasn’t still asleep?

No, of course not.

Rude could have never conjured such an image. His dreams were not so fanciful, and no matter how much kinky porn Reno bought, Rude still would not have dreamt up Reno in that costume.

“I’m healed,” Rude said as heat crept up his neck, around his ears, and throbbed through his veins.

He swallowed over a lump in his throat.

“Are you?” Reno demanded, hackles raised, and he stood there with his hands on his hips like he wasn’t wearing the cosplay of a nurse with a ridiculously short skirt and the paper cap no nurse actually wore.

No legally employed health professional would be caught wearing fishnet stockings or stiletto heels either. It wasn’t practical. It was nothing more than the wet dreams of the adolescent. And Rude apparently because it was the hottest thing he’d seen all year.

“Yes,” Rude said. He licked his lips. The only thing he wanted to do was stick his hands under that skirt and see if Reno was wearing any underwear. Which was doubtful.

Rude actually wasn’t sure if his partner even owned any underwear.

Reno snorted and leaned down, tugging on the highest end of his stocking to pull it further up his thigh. He should be wearing garters, but maybe he didn’t have time. Or didn’t know. “Fine then. But ya ruined my surprise.”

“I’m surprised,” Rude said, and perhaps his voice emerged a bit strangled. He wanted to drag his palms up the length of Reno’s legs, feel the contrast of skin against the texture of the fishnets.

“Yeah?” Reno straightened and half-turned, twisting to look over his shoulder at the stretch of the fabric over his ass. He gave it a contemplative swipe. “Do you think this skirt makes my ass look fat?”

Rude swore under his breath and crossed the floor in three quick strides on his very healed leg, thank you very much. His hands found their way to Reno’s hips, his mouth to the crook of Reno’s pale throat, barely above the collar of his pleated shirt. Reno smelled like cigarettes, like he’d been chain-smoking, but his hips fit perfectly against Rude’s palms.

“Or maybe you like it,” Reno purred as he tilted his head to give Rude more access. He ground back, his ass against the cradle of Rude’s hips.

Rude groaned and dragged his hands down, letting his palms skate along the top of the stockings, his face pressed to Reno’s ear. He gave it a nip, and Reno shivered.

“The couch,” Rude growled as his cock throbbed, and he considered pulling those stockings down with his teeth. “It’s closer than the bed.”

Reno laughed like the manipulator he was. “Wanna bend me over the back of the couch. Is that it, partner?” He cupped a hand against the back of Rude’s neck, calloused grip firm and unmistakably masculine. It was a delicious contrast.

Rude’s grip on Reno’s thighs tightened. He pressed Reno’s earlobe between his teeth, and Reno’s fingers dug into his neck.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he breathed as he ground back again, the perfect pressure against Rude’s dick, trapped behind his sweatpants.

Why was he wearing clothes? They were such a nuisance.

“Move,” Rude growled into Reno’s ear and pushed him forward, straight toward the couch. He curled an arm around Reno, pressed his hand to Reno’s abdomen, felt it flex beneath his splayed fingers.

Reno groaned, his head falling back to Rude’s shoulder. “Can’t move if yer attached to me like that.” He rolled his hips forward. “And look at that, yer hand ain’t where it can do the most good either.”

Those heels.

They made Reno’s legs look long for days, they pushed out his ass in a way Rude wanted to bury his face against. He wanted Reno bent over the back of the couch now.

Easily solved.

Rude gripped both Reno’s thighs again, lifted, and spun them. Another push sprawled Reno forward, his hands catching the back of the couch, one knee up on the cushions, the other foot braced on the floor. There were shadows beneath the stretch of the nurse’s skirt, and Rude’s hands found their way to the curve of Reno’s ass.

Reno looked over his shoulder, and he was smirking, though his eyes were dark and hungry. His tongue flicked over his lips. “I’ve reduced you to wordless grunts. Guess I did a good job.” He looked especially proud of himself.

“Lube?” Rude asked as he fitted himself between Reno’s thighs, as he dragged his palms up those fishnets until his fingers caught in the hem of Reno’s skirt so he could inch it up and up.

Of course Reno wasn’t wearing underwear. Of course he wasn’t.

Reno shifted his weight, stuck a hand down the front of his shirt, and produced a narrow tube, tossing it over his shoulder. “I’m always prepared.”

Rude made a non-committal noise as he caught the tube and tucked it within reach. He palmed Reno’s ass, giving it a squeeze that was hard enough to leave an imprint of his hand, however briefly. His thumbs skirted over Reno’s hole, and Reno moaned, sagging forward into the couch.

That wouldn’t do.

Rude grabbed a handful of cherry-red hair and pulled it back, forcing Reno back into place. The nurse’s cap was knocked askew. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Reno made a delicious sound, and his fingers tightened on the back of the couch. “Absolutely nowhere unless you don’t get that beautiful dick in me asap.”

Rude chuckled and pressed the pad of his thumb over Reno’s hole again, a circling pressure that had Reno pushing back against him, making those hungry noises in his throat. He kept his grip on Reno’s hair, twisting his wrist to tighten it up. Reno arched back, and his hole clenched against Rude’s thumb.

“Rude,” he growled. “I threw lube at your bald head for a damned good reason!”

“You’re so tetchy when you’re horny,” Rude said with a click of his tongue. But he obediently fetched the lube and squeezed a fair dollop into place.

He rubbed it in as Reno made sweet wanting noises, shifting his weight to drop one hand to his dick, giving it a tight squeeze. Rude’s cock throbbed, leaking a wet patch against his pants, and why the fuck was he still wearing clothes?

Rude shoved his pants around his knees with his lube wet hand and rocked forward, grinding his dick against Reno. Those fishnets were rough, but Reno’s skin was soft, and the lube was slick, and fuck.

He didn’t know who he was teasing more, himself or Reno. So Rude aimed himself at Reno’s hole and sank deep in one push, Reno opening for him so easily like he did these days.

Reno moaned and clawed at the couch, head tossing back as he yelled, “Finally!”

That first thrust was always bliss. Rude’s thoughts briefly scattered as his dick sank into hot-squeezy-slick, and Reno squeezed down on him just to make it that edge of perfect. He gripped Reno’s hip, fingers splayed across Reno’s hip bone, and held him place, root-deep, his dick throbbing inside his partner.

“You and your damn savoring,” Reno panted as he tried to get the leverage to push back, but the couch cushions were too giving, and the one foot on the ground didn’t have it either. “Fuck me!”

Someone was getting mouthy.

Rude’s palm skated across Reno’s ass because it was right there. The smack echoed in the room, and a nice pink print was left behind to contrast the stark white of the nurse’s uniform, but better was the way Reno sang for him, clenched down, and shuddered.

“Again,” he demanded, like the hedonist he was.

Rude grunted and pulled on Reno’s hair, arching his body back, making him tighten down. Reno made a helpless, whimpering noise, and he worked harder at his dick, hand stripping it faster and faster. He gasped, tried to say something, but was garbled streetspeak, which meant it was more cursing than coherency.

Perfect.

Rude dug his feet into the rug and set up a brutal pace, shoving into Reno and yanking him back on his cock, tipping up to angle himself just right to pound on Reno’s–

“Fuck yes!” Reno shouted, and Rude thankfully had the foresight to soundproof his apartment otherwise they’d never hear the end of it. Reno cursed and spat and made noise because he couldn’t be quiet, not about anything, but his balls were drawing up, and his hole was getting tighter.

He panted, face flushed from what little of it Rude could see, and he had to be close. Rude shifted rhythm, deeper and grinding, riding along that hot button of pleasure that made Reno whimper. He clawed at the couch with his free hand, ass pushing back against Rude.

“Again,” Reno gasped out, on the edge of a whine. “Smack me again.”

Molten lava flooded Rude’s veins. For a moment, he saw white, and then his palm flew over Reno’s ass, one cheek and then the other, layering over the smack from earlier. Reno made a strangled noise, and then his body went taut as he spurted all over the couch with a loud moan. His hole rippled around Rude’s dick, but it wasn’t enough.

“K-keep going,” Reno panted as he sagged forward, despite Rude’s grip on his hair. His legs wobbled, especially the one still braced on the floor, so Rude released his hair, and let Reno topple forward.

It was still a damn good view. Reno, wrecked and flushed, painted in sweat, the white skirt hiked up, his softening cock visible in the vee of his thighs. Those damn fishnets climbing up his muscular legs, the stretch of the white shirt across his shoulders. The heels.

Rude grabbed Reno’s hips and pulled him back into every thrust, leaning forward and pinning Reno between the couch and his own body. Reno made a noise with each thrust and tried to widen his legs, both knees on the couch but losing to the softness of the cushions. Rude was losing, too.

“Should’ve gone with the damn bed,” Rude growled as he slipped free of Reno again and jabbed uselessly against a reddened buttock.

Reno laughed and spun, grabbing a fistful of Rude’s shirt – why in Hades was he still wearing a shirt? “I can fix that,” he purred as he pulled Rude onto the couch with more strength than his wiry body would suggest.

Rude stumbled, tripping over his own barely removed pants, and landed ass-first on the couch. He only had a few seconds to kick off his sweatpants before Reno climbed into his lap and sank back onto his dick with an eager grind downward. He had all the leverage now.

“My turn,” Reno said and threw his arms over Rude’s shoulders as he rolled his hips down, over and over again, the perfect angle and rhythm.

Rude groaned and pawed at Reno’s hips, holding on but letting Reno set the pace, as fire twisted into firaga in his gut. As Reno mashed their mouths together in a filthy kiss that tastes like strawberry lip gloss and nicotine.

The couch creaked and protested, but they’d bought it for sturdiness as much as comfort. Rude dug his fingers into Reno’s skin, left marks behind, but there was no resisting the siren call of Reno’s body, the filthy way Reno sucked on his tongue. Rude yanked Reno down on him, thrusting deep, as orgasm rushed through him. He spilled into Reno, head snapping back to gulp in desperate breaths as his cock jerked and it seemed to go on and on and on.

“I have… the best ideas,” Reno gasped as he sank into Rude’s lap and went all loose-limbed pliant like he always did after a good fuck.

Rude, eyes closed and head tipped back, could not disagree. Even if their couch would have to be steam-cleaned to remove the semen stains, and his recently healed leg ached a little from the over-exertion. It was worth it.

“Keep the stockings,” Rude said.

Reno laughed and squirmed in his lap. “Liked those, did you?” He hummed with amusement and mouthed his way up the curve of Rude’s neck. “How’re you gonna convince me to keep them, hm?”

“What do you want?”

“Oh, I definitely have to think about this.” Reno rocked his hips, squeezing down on Rude’s softened dick as it started to slip free. “I’m thinking of something… public. Yep. That’ll do it.”

Reno had a damned exhibitionist kink a mile wide. Rude only rarely indulged him because if he didn’t rein Reno in, no one did, and then Tseng would get involved, and no one wanted that.

No one.

Rude rubbed his thumbs over Reno’s hipbones. “Heels, too.”

“I’ll just keep the whole outfit,” Reno said with a laugh. He mouthed his way to Rude’s earlobe and tugged it with his teeth. “I’ll think of a good time and place. Maybe my office, hm? Put you under my desk. Put your mouth to really good use?”

Rude shivered. “I…” He paused to clear his throat. “I don’t think anyone will believe that you are diligently doing your work.”

“I’ll tell them you convinced me,” Reno said as he dragged his fingertips along the nape of Rude’s neck.

Rude squeezed Reno’s hips. “… Deal.” A low throb settled in his groin at the thought. He wouldn’t fit comfortably under Reno’s desk, and as popular as Reno was, many under-Turks would probably come by to chat because they could.

And none of them would know.

“But, shower first,” Reno said as he shifted back, wriggling his come-sticky fingers with a smirk. “I demand attention.”

Rude was not at all surprised. He rested his hands on Reno’s thighs, swept his fingers over the contrast of fishnets and corded muscle. “Fair enough.”

Reno had taken such excellent care of him after all. It was only right that Rude return the favor.

***

[FF7] Care, Loving… Tender?

Contrary to popular belief, aka Reno, Rude was not, in fact, dying.

He had a broken leg. Not even that, he had a cracked tibia. It would heal, with rest and a daily potion as Shinra wouldn’t spring for the elixir to speed up his healing time even further. There were other Turks, Tseng said, and took Rude off the roster for a week.

He then took one look at Reno and promptly took Reno off the roster as well. “I know very well I cannot send you out with anyone else,” Tseng said with a sigh before sending them on their way, Rude hobbling on crutches, and Reno affecting a lazy stroll that vanished the moment they were out of view of Tseng.

“Can’t believe they didn’t at least give you a wheelchair,” Reno said with a scoff. “Cheapskates. We’re the best team they have! The elixir should be mandatory.”

“I can manage,” Rude grunted as he swung onto the elevator and punched the appropriate button that would take him to his not-long-enough vacation.

Reno trailed after him, chewing so strongly on the end of his cigarette that the filter had to be gone already. He wasn’t allowed to light up inside headquarters and Tseng had finally gotten that through his thick skull.

“You shouldn’t have to manage, partner. You should be out in the field as soon as possible,” Reno snarled. He spat his cigarette on the floor and immediately replaced it.

Rude sighed.

The lift chimed and deposited them on the residential floor for the Turks. Rude hobbled to his one-room apartment, swung his access badge, and went inside. Reno followed on his heels, like he didn’t have his own place, and Rude raised an eyebrow.

“What? You’re injured,” Reno said defensively. “I’m not letting you sit here and rot like Shinra would. Someone’s gotta make sure you take your potions.”

“I can do that myself,” Rude said as he sat down on the edge of the bed and rested his crutches on the wall nearby.

Reno stuck his nose into the fridge and made a disappointed noise. “There’s nothing in here. You can’t eat baking soda for a week.” He pulled out his phone, dialing a number he must have memorized. “I’m ordering take out from that noodle place. You need vegetables.”

Rude’s eyebrows threatened to crawl toward his hairline. Since when did Reno acknowledge the existence of vegetables?

“I’ll go pick up some groceries after dinner,” Reno continued as he shrugged out of his jacket and threw it over the back of the couch. He kicked off his shoes, making himself at home. “Someone’s gotta get your potions.”

“Which I can do,” Rude said.

“Hell, no!” Reno snapped and pointed at him. “You’re going to keep your ass in that bed and not move until that leg is healed. We’re not staying out of the field any longer than we have to and I – oh, yeah. Yo.”

He turned and started rapid-fire ordering their usual while Rude blinked and stared at the lines of Reno’s back, the hard set of his shoulders. If Rude didn’t know better, he’d think that Reno was worried. Except Reno didn’t do worry.

Rude managed to work off his remaining shoe, jacket, and holster by the time Reno finished and strutted toward him with a water bottle, a beer can, and his as yet unlit cigarette. Rude did not mention his missing shoe, otherwise he had no doubt Reno would volunteer to go fetch it from medical, ranting the whole time about how they should have sent it with him.

“Food should be here in twenty,” Reno said as he plopped down beside Rude, hitting him in the side with the water. “Drink. It’s good for you.”

“I’d rather have the beer,” Rude said.

Reno twisted away from him, putting the beer out of reach. “Nope. You gotta heal. No beer for you.” He stuck out his tongue.

“I can’t decide if you’ve turned into my jailer or my nursemaid,” Rude grumbled, but he took the water and drank half of it anyway. He was thirsty, and he was tired, and his leg was starting to ache.

Pain was never much of a problem for Rude, but here in the closest thing to home, he felt comfortable and safe and that was his body’s cue to remind him that pain wasn’t a thing to be indefinitely ignored.

Reno clucked his tongue. “I’m not either of those. I’m your partner, asshole.” He scowled as if offended by the implications. “Lay down. I’ll help you get your pants off.”

“My pants, hm?” Rude echoed as he tossed his sunglasses onto the nightstand.

“Not like that.” Reno’s cheeks took the slightest edge of pink, but it was gone as he shifted to a leer. “I’m not so low I’d attack an injured man.” He started working at Rude’s belt. “But if you take your medicine like a good boy, I’ll blow you later.”

Rude hummed and plucked the unlit cigarette from Reno’s lips, tossing it over his partner’s shoulder toward the wastebin. “Those are bad for you.”

“So’re bullets but I don’t see you taking my gun,” Reno grumbled as he untucked Rude’s shirt and got back to work.

Rude smirked and grabbed a handful of Reno’s hair, pulling him closer. Reno went willingly, knees tucked to either side of Rude’s hips, but extra careful of his leg.

“That’s not behavin’,” Reno said as he draped his arms over Rude’s shoulders.

“You must be rubbing off on me,” Rude hummed and pulled Reno into a kiss, licking the taste of nicotine out of his mouth. Reno must have been non-stop smoking while he waited for the doctors to let Rude go.

“I’ll rub on something,” Reno said with a laugh. He nipped at Rude’s bottom lip before giving him a shove.

Rude’s back hit the mattress with a quiet whump.

“Now be still so I can get your pants off,” Reno ordered, shimmying down and getting back to work.

Rude chuckled and folded his arms behind his head. “Yes, nurse.”

“I’m not wearin’ the uniform, so don’t get your hopes up,” Reno drawled.

“Spoilsport.”

A whole week off with Reno hovering and aiming to please was practically a vacation, even if Rude did have to fracture a bone to get it.

***