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Blurr doesn’t know what his agent was thinking, sending him to a run down place like this. He’s supposed to be meeting a reputable Iaconian reporter to do a spotlight interview meant to run in advance of the next Ibex Cup, not griming up his paint job slumming it in some back alley studio a whole klik outside polity limits.
On top of it all, it's raining: a damp, miserable drizzle that promises more unpleasant weather left to come.
He finds the number on a keypad and buzzes for entry at the intercom. The door is heavy duty, with a security camera pointed at it, but the recording light is out and it clicks dubiously when it unlocks. The atrium smells dusty, faintly of burnt oil and some kind of cheap chemical cleaner, and he books it towards the elevator only to find it out of order.
Blurr curls his lip in disgust. Right. Stairs it is.
The stairwell is worse, if at all possible. The chemical smell is cloying here, layered with stale energon. Someone’s tracked in debris from the outside, grime collecting in the corners of the steps. He tries to dodge it, but ends up zig-zagging up a single flight of stairs before surrendering to the idea that he’s going to need a detailing after he leaves.
He double checks the unit number in his recent message logs. Blaster, the reporter he’s meeting, is apparently on the top floor at the end of a long, narrow hallway. The smell is less offensive here, but Blurr catches a potent whiff of some sort of inhalant coming from one of the habs and closes his vents.
Blaster’s door looks like all the rest, no less grungy. There's a small access panel beside it, so old that the glyphs have worn off. Blurr punches the largest button, hoping for the door buzzer on the first try.
He doesn't hear anything, but the door slides open after a few seconds to admit him.
The inside of the hab is considerably less dingy, but crowded with what looks like a mountain of junk. Blurr stands in the doorway until the automatic close function beeps a warning at him, then steps over a small crate of empty acrylic energon cubes set aside marked for recycling.
Blaster himself is obvious and optic-catching, despite the total chaos of the hab. His red and gold paint gleams like it's been freshly waxed, possibly the only truly tidy thing in the entire building.
"You can just toss those on the floor," Blaster says, gesturing vaguely at the stacks of misshapen boxes crowding the only chair without even looking up from his data pad. Blurr stands there stiffly, looking at them with a feeling of growing outrage, but there’s nowhere else to sit unless he wants to cozy up to Blaster himself. Since that isn’t happening, he gives in and shifts them onto the floor. Not all of them make the descent intact, slips of microfiche bursting from the side of one and sliding everywhere underfoot.
Blaster doesn’t seem to care, so Blurr collapses into the chair, nudging a box sullenly.
Blurr makes the mistake of doing more than glancing around Blaster’s hab. It’s full of stacked crates, boxes, and baskets, most of them overflowing with old hard copies of media — old-fashioned bound plastic catalogs, glossy films, and even tiny copper-plated data slugs meant to go in archival data banks, the kind Blurr used to watch historical races on when his career hadn't really launched yet.
Between the strange amount of reading material there’s the detritus of a life so alien that Blurr isn’t even sure he wants to recognize it. Scattered about are energon cubes, cheap souvenirs from offworld attractions, unidentifiable electronics, a handful of awards plaques, repair tools, and jars of mineral additives. Blaster’s walls are decorated with free screener proofs of promotional posters, mostly holovids, but a couple of old races — none of them Blurr’s. Directly in front of Blurr on the table is a half-empty package of low quality energon candy, the kind you can find at any public fuel stop. Right next to it is a booster cartridge.
Blaster clearly doesn’t hire anyone to clean up after him.
Blurr presses his thighs together, shifting in the chair to try to get more comfortable. The padding on it is worn on the sides, pressing his hips against the supports, but his aft fits uncomfortably into the sagging middle, the seat somehow too hard and too soft at the same time.
"You want a hit?" Blaster asks, picking up a stylus and entering something into his data pad. "Don’t mind sharing."
"I don’t do boosters," Blurr says. Not as a matter of morality, but mostly because his sponsorships are riding on it. "I get tested before every race."
"Mmm," Blaster says. He finally glances up at Blurr. His optics stay steady on Blurr’s face for a second, then skate down the line of Blurr’s frame and back away again. "Real shame."
Blurr doesn’t really know what to make of that, so he keeps his mouth shut. He can’t exactly leave. His agent would rake him over the coals if he slagged off another reporter and it got back to his team manager. They’re already forcing him to take sponsorships after he got into it with Drag Strip at that club down near Translucentica. The last thing he needs is another character assassination piece being blasted across the news nets. Blurr thinks the main problem with being a winner is that eventually everyone starts rooting for you to fail.
All at once Blaster dumps his pad on the table between them and fishes a recording box out from between two precariously-arranged stacks of data drives. The thing is a total antique, but it apparently still works; he sets it on the table and flips up the little microphone.
"Can I get you some fuel? Engex?" Blaster asks, fiddling with some setting. The thing has a speaker. Buttons. It must be ancient to not have any kind of data interface port. He wonders if Blaster listens to the playback manually and decides he must.
"I’m fine," Blurr says stiffly.
Blaster shrugs one shoulder. "Suit yourself. Did your agent send over the advance copy of my questions?"
He did. Blurr didn’t bother reading them. All these things are the same. "I didn’t have time to look at them."
Blaster smiles thinly. "Of course. No problem. Pretty standard stuff. I ask a question, you answer it. This isn’t a press junket, so if you want to chat about your answer a little or take time to think, we have room in the schedule. Just don’t overthink it too much ‘cause I don’t skim coat the truth and the readers can always tell."
That’s not comforting. Blurr taps his fingers restlessly on the arm of the chair then stops, trying not to fidget. Blaster smiles at him.
"I won't answer anything I don't like," Blurr says.
Blaster’s smile slips slightly, then picks back up. He straightens and sits back, tapping his stylus on his knee. "Obviously."
"Go ahead," Blurr says, gesturing impatiently at the recorder.
Blaster leans forward and presses a button with a long finger. A light comes on, a steady red. There's a crackling hiss of old electronics activating. Blurr turns his head and looks out the window at the sheeting rain, wondering absently if the microphone is new enough to filter out background noise.
"Interview notes for Blurr of Iacon —"
"Altihex," Blurr corrects without thinking. He doesn't know why he says it. Everyone's always assumed he's from Iacon and he's never set the record straight before. Maybe he's feeling morose about the city.
He's certainly restless.
Blaster looks up at him, heavy brow ridges drawn. "Altihex?" A moment of silence passes. "Really?"
"It's important to remember your beginnings," Blurr says thinly. He shifts his knees together and twists in his seat, half from physical discomfort and half from the strange way Blaster is looking at him, like he can see right through to how Blurr doesn't really give a slag about Altihex.
He was only there for a couple of years after he forged. It was bad. Blurr quickly decided he didn't belong in a place like that, so he jumped ship the second a practice slot at the track in Polyhex opened up. After that it was a world tour of each polity, mostly being trotted out for show by his very first manager, an enterprising mech that only plucked him out of the amateur circuit for his speed and flashy looks.
Iacon was always the goal. Blurr's been a fixture for a while.
Blaster presses a button. The light goes off. He presses it again. The light comes on, starting a new recording.
"Interview notes for Blurr of Altihex. Iaconian Newsfeed Service, vorn 1303.2, by Blaster of Iacon." He stops speaking and looks at Blurr expectantly, waiting for him to say something. When nothing is forthcoming, he prompts, "What can you tell me about your life before you joined the public sphere as a racer?"
"I don't talk about it much, but it was fine. It's just boring as slag," Blurr says, putting on his interview voice again and smiling in a way that he knows doesn't seem forced. "It was truly dull. I spent most of my first few decades doing nothing but training and touring for qualifier races. It was difficult to find time to socialize sometimes, but I make up for it now."
He sits up and drapes his arm over the back of the chair, making a picture of himself. Most reporters will do the heavy lifting of assuming he's happily out partying and making up for lost time at clubs full of bored, rich mechs that want to be in close proximity to a celebrity.
They're not far off. Blurr's social life is mostly experienced through a faint haze of engex, racing talk, and a helping of his prestige greasing the gears. Holovid stars, politicians, and artists of all notoriety.
"You’re the youngest mech to ever take the Ibex Cup," Blaster says, his optics flitting down to Blurr’s bouncing leg. Blurr stills it immediately. "Do you credit anything in particular for your frankly stunning string of successes?"
"Hard work and the support of a great team of managers and agents," Blurr answers automatically.
Blaster twiddles his stylus. "You've given that answer several times before."
"What?" Blurr asks, immediately irritated. Of course he has. Blaster should know how these things go. "If I have, it's only because it's the truth."
"Is it?" Blaster reaches out and shifts a stack of flimsies from one side of the low table to the other. Beneath it are more printed notes. Blurr can see his name on some of them through the semi-translucent plastic. "From all my research, your ascent to fame looks fairly effortless. You ran a string of very aggressive wins — some as much as a full minute on your earlier sprints, and up to an hour on longer series. Your wins became less outrageous as you moved up in the ranks against more experienced racers and started competing in the planet-wide invitational loop. There's a string of eight victories in one of your early Kaon series where you won by exactly six point three seconds every time."
"That's ridiculous," Blurr lies faintly. "If those times are accurate, then I'm sure it's a coincidence."
In truth, none of it has been hard. He can go faster. Most of the high level competitions only have one or two mechs in them that can give him a serious run for his creds. Blurr was always going to win those races, but it doesn't make the promoters and sponsors good profits if the audience always knows the outcome.
Those Kaon races were a mistake on his part. Blurr's gotten better at creating close calls. He's an entertainer now.
Blaster gives him a long look like he thinks what Blurr's saying is total slag.
"Traditionally, you’ve avoided sponsors, but you’ve recently taken on several," Blaster says and Blurr tenses, his jaw flexing. "How does it feel to be trotted out in front of your longtime fans like a prized turbofox by Astra Chemicals and —" here he looks at his notes significantly "— the Vos Refinery Collective?"
Blurr should have expected the question, but something about the way Blaster phrases hits a weak spot, a crack in his armor placed there by the insinuation Blurr was somehow rigging races.
"I need a break," Blurr says and he’s up out of the chair before he even knows where he’s going.
Blaster’s suite isn’t that big and he finds the washroom on the first try. He fumbles for the tap and manages to get the sink running.
Blurr leans over the shallow basin, rubbing at his face with cold solvent, a horrible feeling in his tanks, an anger that doesn’t make any sense. Things are so fragged and he can’t even put his finger on why. He’s still racing. He’s still winning. He’s got everything he could ask for.
It isn’t Blaster’s fault. Blaster’s got a job to do, even if he is strange and grubby and uncouth. Blurr needs to go back out there and answer the rest of his questions and then he can leave and never think about Blaster or his ridiculous manual recorder ever again.
"You okay?" Blaster asks from the doorway. The light in the hall is off, so when Blurr looks up at him he’s mostly a reddish shadow, picked out in contrast by a few biolights. It’s Blurr’s first time seeing him standing up and he’s taller than Blurr expects, filling the entrance to the washroom.
Blurr looks at him and turns the tap off. "Not really, no."
"You don’t want to be here," Blaster says, which doesn't take a huge leap of intuition to figure out. At least he doesn't sound slagged off about it.
"No," Blurr agrees. "But I can’t leave without finishing your interview."
"And I don’t get paid without finishing your interview," Blaster says, tapping his fingers on the doorway. "Can’t do that without asking questions. Seems like we’re both stuck."
"I’m going to go," Blurr says. "I’m just going to go. I don’t need another interrogation."
Blaster steps out of the way and Blurr darts for the door, needing desperately to get his wheels on the road. Except Blaster’s hand shoots out and seizes him around the wrist, pulling him up short. He swings around to face Blaster, ready to fight, but thinks better of it. Never good to brawl with a reporter.
"Get your hands off me," Blurr snarls, engine growling, plating flared and bristling.
"Just wait a second," Blaster says, a low steady hum to his voice, like he’s trying to be soothing. "Just hang on. We got off on the wrong foot, maybe."
Blaster puts his hand on Blurr’s hip. Blurr tenses, looking down the extended line of Blaster’s arm, not quite sure what’s happening. There’s a dry feeling in his mouth, a knot of anticipation in his fuel tank, and he doesn’t move when Blaster leans in and kisses him like he's worried Blurr might haul back and punch him at any point.
Blurr should haul back and punch him. He’s fragged off at the presumption. Instead, he seizes Blaster by the waist and yanks him so close they’re crushed up against each other, then sticks his tongue recklessly into Blaster’s mouth. It's not a kind kiss, mean and scraping.
The feeling that's been building inside him for days, weeks, months — maybe years — bursts and spreads through him, a shockwave of anger and frustration. He doesn't want to be rolled out in front of the cameras anymore. He wants to get his fingers under someone's plating, to behave badly without being scrutinized, to frag so hard he has to get a joint realignment before his next race.
He wants to win something. Anything. Not fake it.
Blaster grabs him by the shoulder, which isn't what Blurr is expecting, and pushes him against the wall. Blurr collides with it hard, grunting, and Blaster catches Blurr’s chin with his other hand and holds him still. Blurr groans at the slow, thorough pillaging of his mouth that immediately follows, Blaster’s tongue flicking across clusters of sensors, teasing until Blurr goes slack and wanting beneath his big hand. The last time anyone kissed Blurr like this was a few years before he won his first race, a big construction mech that’d put him over a table and made good work out of fragging him senseless.
The way Blaster’s treating him, Blurr might get that lucky again. He's missed that kind of rough handling more than he thought.
"You feel good," Blaster says appreciatively, biting at Blurr’s jaw. "You wanna come see my berth?"
Blurr can't answer, static too thick in his lines. He nods.
Blaster looks at him for a moment, dragging his thumb once across Blurr’s chin, and then says, "Come on. Let me offer some real hospitality."
The berth is clean at least, a sturdy, padded platform with ample space for both of them. The rest of the room is less appealing. Blurr glances at the berthside cabinet — and the hefty false spike sitting on top of it, leaning at a precarious angle next to a steam bubbler that looks like it's been recently used — and then back to Blaster, skeptical.
Blaster smirks and gives him a little push.
Blurr goes down on the berth without thinking too much about what he’s doing. He’s totally sober, so he doesn’t have an excuse for looking so eager for it. He’s blowing off some steam, that's all, that's what he tells himself. Blaster slips in behind him, palming along the backs of Blurr’s thighs, his big fingers exploring towards Blurr’s panel. When he hits the edge of it he lets out an appreciative hum, teasing with barely enough pressure to make Blurr want to squirm.
"You like getting spiked?" Blaster asks, crowding up against him. He’s not much bigger than Blurr but his bulk is impressive: wide hips, wide thighs, big hands. Meters of warm, smooth metal and bulky, interesting plating Blurr keeps thinking about sticking his fingers between. Blurr’s already reassessing some personal preferences.
"I don’t," Blurr starts, stops, licks his lips, then tries again with a few drams more honesty, "I don’t, usually. Do that." Despite his current position suggesting otherwise. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing here. Blaster is a total stranger and Blurr’s letting him take liberties.
"Yeah, sure, I get it," Blaster says and rubs a little harder. Blurr’s panel compresses enough that it makes contact with his valve. "Wanna now?"
He doesn’t even have to think about it. "Yeah." The word is distorted. He feels so charged all over when he lets his panel transform away that the air feels frigid on his heated array. For a brief, irrational moment thinks about finding image captures of his valve plastered fifty meters tall on the main screen of his next qualifier race, but he pushes the thought away. He has to believe Blaster’s a professional, not some schlocky gossipmonger.
Blaster knuckles down the length of Blurr’s valve. Blurr’s lubricated already, Blaster’s touch skidding through it. "Pretty. Bet it’ll look even better stretched out around my spike."
Blurr bets it will. His valve is as nice as the rest of him and if Blaster’s spike is even half as attractive as his frame, the image capture will make a filthy souvenir.
"You run hot for racer valve?" Blurr asks, angling to hurry Blaster up with some old fashioned baiting.
"Not really my thing," Blaster says and then dips a finger into Blurr's valve. "But you could be anybody's thing. I think you know that."
A second finger pushes inside alongside the first before he can think up a retort and Blurr is so distracted he just clamps his jaw shut. Blaster isn't really doing much with them yet, feeling deeper into Blurr's valve. It's almost impersonal, like a medical inspection, and frag that kinda gets Blurr revved for it anyway. He tries to wriggle his hips back to get a little friction, maybe some direct sensor contact, but Blaster puts a firm hand on his aft to hold him still.
"Relax for me," Blaster says, and then starts thrusting his fingers, a sudden mercy.
And damn is he good with his hands.
Blurr presses his face against the berth padding, his mouth open, trying desperately to keep himself upright. Blaster’s thick fingers work in and out of his valve, unrelenting, and Blurr’s legs are trembling uncontrollably after the first few thrusts. Blurr feels himself panting, his exhaust ports all open wide, steam beginning to curl from them into the cool air. He grinds back against Blaster’s hand without meaning to and he’s got this embarrassing hardware whine that keeps starting up again every time he tries to kill the source.
It's not enough to get him off by itself and Blaster makes sure of that. He doesn’t hurry at all, like he’s feeling the way Blurr is coming undone and fine-tuning his fingering to keep Blurr right on the precipice of squirmy, deeply frustrating pleasure. Blurr expected to be flung down on the berth and fragged hard, not this slow disassembly of his self control.
"Can you hurry up and frag me?" Blurr groans when Blaster makes one of his hip actuators spasm and give out. He can't think like this.
"Nah," Blaster says, twisting and spreading his fingers in a way that makes Blurr feel like he's being held open by something much larger. "You need this first."
"The frag I do —" Blurr starts and then Blaster does some trick with his fingers deep inside Blurr's valve and the rest of his protest dissolves into a helpless moan. He didn’t even know he had sensors there, much less ones that felt like that.
"You usually need to overload a couple of times before you get spiked?" Blaster asks, pushing another finger into Blurr’s valve as casually as if he owns it. Blurr is having a little trouble comprehending how, exactly, he’s doing what he’s doing. Every time Blaster moves his fingers a little more, Blurr feels like maybe he’s been missing something extremely critical about fragging. "You’re so tight."
The question registers. A couple of times? Blurr feels weirdly embarrassed. No one ever asks him these kinds of questions. There's an agitated edge to his voice when he says, "I don't usually let anyone spike me at all."
"Right," Blaster says, no admonition in his voice. His bulk shifts behind Blurr, hot metal against Blurr’s aft, big palm rubbing up Blurr’s abdominal plating in soothing swipes. "Relax for me. I don’t want to hurt you."
Blurr doesn’t entirely comprehend why Blaster's not already housing-deep in Blurr’s valve yet, but he’s good with his hands and Blurr’s never really hated being the center of someone’s attention, so he swallows his impatience and tries to focus on the sensation. Blurr closes his optics and rides the wave of feeling, the slow build of charge that burns through his array and down his legs, spreading up his spinal strut. Blaster gets a third finger inside Blurr and he’s suddenly not thinking about much at all except the way his lines are so swollen with charge it feels like his struts are going to melt.
"There you go," Blaster says, a rumble of sound, and Blurr doesn’t understand why he says it at first until he’s overloading, collapsing forward onto his face and moaning. The feeling is overwhelming, rushing through him. It cycles back and forth so many times Blurr's processes feel like they scatter in a million unrecoverable directions, a debris field of emotion in his mind ten kilometers long, until it finally releases him from its grip, fizzling pleasantly out, and leaves him shaking.
Blurr pants out of his exhaust vents, everything too warm, and wonders dimly what the frag he’s doing here. The thought is dispelled the instant Blaster withdraws his fingers and rubs the hand over his spasming valve, avoiding directly touching his nodes, the motion sending deeply pleasant aftershocks through Blurr’s entire pelvic assembly.
"Wait," Blurr says, the word thick with distortion. He's having trouble keeping his optics open. "Oh, Primus."
"Yeah, you're feeling it good, aren't you, sweetspark?" Blaster says hotly, but he keeps his hand cupped gently over Blurr's valve, just holding him.
Blurr takes longer than he expected to recover. His spike is still half-mast, his charge scattered from the overload, but it's been a while and he's well-fueled, so it doesn't take a lot more than the thought of being fragged through the berth to get Blurr revved again.
"Okay," Blurr says unsteadily, pushing himself up on his elbow. He isn't even sure at what point he collapsed.
Blaster caresses his valve, making his legs shake. "Yeah? You want my spike now?"
He doesn't wait for Blurr to respond. He's pressed right up behind him in a flash, quicker than Blurr expects, his panels already open.
Blaster’s spike is thick and nearly smooth, except for a ripple of texture along the underside that rubs with an unexpected intensity over an entire column of Blurr’s sensors. He feeds it slowly into Blurr's valve and stops just short of Blurr's ceiling node, giving Blurr a few fuel cycles to adjust, petting at Blurr's hips and lower back.
He doesn't wait long, a fact for which Blurr is deeply grateful, because the next stroke leaves him feeling horribly empty until Blaster pushes home again. Blurr’s legs twitch, his valve spread wide. The one after is even worse, even better, his spinal strut tingling. His transmission gives a popping whine as it tries unsuccessfully to engage in root mode and Blaster chuckles.
"I got you," Blaster says, rubbing at an external node that makes Blurr’s thigh plating twitch independently of his actuators, a hitching partial transformation sequence. "Gotta loosen you up a little more."
Blaster’s good with his hands, working Blurr over and over, never lingering long enough on one node for Blurr to get used to it, spreading him little by little as he rocks back and forth a few centimeters at a time. Blurr's entire body shakes with effort. He feels like he’s going around a turn too fast, the curve too tight, a pressure and tension building in him that bursts all at once and then Blaster is sliding all the way home.
"Is —" Blurr bites down on his own tongue, arching his spinal strut to grind back on Blaster’s spike. There’s a deeper section of texture near the base of his spike, something modded. A heady rush goes through Blurr when he realizes what it is. "Is that — ?"
"You wanna try it?" Blaster says gamely, finally sounding a little husky himself. He rubs the already stretched rim of Blurr's valve and then pushes his thumb in alongside his spike. The feeling makes Blurr’s thigh plating jump again and his entire row of abdominal armor shifts in a clenched wave. "It’ll fit."
Blurr isn’t so sure it will, but he’s not going to say no, not now, not with Blaster’s spike dragging against his calipers as he rocks deeper with each careful thrust. The idea of Blaster stuffing and stretching his valve out, locked into place while he pumps Blurr full of charge, makes Blurr’s fuel pump flutter wildly.
"Yeah, sure," Blurr says, aiming for casual but probably missing the mark by a kilometer with the amount of trembling static in his voice.
Blaster strokes Blurr’s aft port with his slicked up hand, teasing the edges of the panel. "Open this for me."
He’s stopped questioning what Blaster wants him to do at this point. Blurr doesn’t have to think about it at all, even though he doesn’t normally let anyone near his aft. Blaster’s breaking so many of Blurr’s self-imposed rules and Blurr is all gas, no brakes.
It's what he wants. No rules. No limitations. No one telling him what he can and can't do. Not worrying about who might see.
Blurr’s arms give out when Blaster pushes his thumb into the hole, stretching out the narrow channel around his thick digit. He works Blurr’s aft open with the same competent, single-minded intensity he’s attacked every other one of Blurr’s sensory systems, in and out, a pressure on the verge of being too much. Every time he thrusts into Blurr’s valve, Blurr can feel the compression in his aft, and then Blaster pulls his thumb out, rotating his hand, and stuffs two fingers into the small, clenching port.
"Tight. Think I could ever get my spike in here?" Blaster asks, chuffing air through his vents, and Blurr can hear the grin in his voice.
Blurr overloads abruptly without his anterior node or spike ever being touched, a high pressure, full frame rush of electricity. Blaster coaxes him through it, slowing his thrusts and aiming them directly at Blurr’s ceiling node, each kiss of the tip sending crackles of feedback that prolong the electrical storm inside Blurr's frame.
There’s an abrupt tension in his valve, so much like the initial thrust of Blaster’s spike it throws him, and he realizes Blaster is overloading too, the mod at the base of his spike swelling — and swelling, and swelling, and swelling. It feels enormous, inflating against abused sensors and conducting Blaster’s charge all through the mesh.
They collapse together in a heap. Blaster holds his weight off Blurr, then rolls them onto their side, curling around Blurr from behind. The position takes the achy tension out of Blurr’s valve without removing the fullness. The twitching calipers slowly calm until they only ripple occasionally along the length of Blaster’s shaft.
It feels more intimate than anything else they’ve done so far, Blaster’s ventilations stirring across the nape of Blurr’s neck. Blaster’s hand palms along Blurr’s chest slowly, exploring seams and flat stretches of metal almost absently, like he’s doing it for the pleasure of touching.
"How’s that?" Blaster mumbles against his shoulder, pressing a kiss to overheated metal. "Comfortable?"
"Good," Blurr admits, his processor thick with pleasure. He shifts his hips experimentally. The entire thing tugs at his valve, sending out a ripple of pleasure that makes him clench his jaw.
Blaster reaches around and rubs at the outer mesh, massaging his way around the swollen mound, spreading lubricant over the rim of Blurr’s valve. He finds Blurr’s anterior node and captures it between his fingers, teasing around it as much as he touches it. It’s almost surprising that something so hard and unyielding feels so good somewhere so wet and vulnerable.
"You wanna overload for me again?" Blaster asks near his audial. Not for the first time Blurr thinks he’s got an incredible voice. Blurr's been thinking that since Blaster looked up and asked him to make himself at home. He licks the side of Blurr’s neck. The hand not on Blurr's valve caresses up Blurr's throat and Blurr opens his mouth eagerly when Blaster pushes his fingers into it. "I wanna watch you lose it on my knot."
"Mmh," Blurr manages, tonguing at his fingers, rendered entirely inarticulate by the play of Blaster’s hand between his legs. There’s an incredible amount of charge still pulsing through him, building again. "Mmhm."
Blaster chuckles, low and warm. He drags his hand back down Blurr's chest plating and squeezes a handful appreciatively. "Damn, a mech could get addicted to making you blow your load."
Blurr turns his face into the berth and moans, scrabbling uselessly at the padding with his hand. Blaster somehow finds the smallest amount of room left in Blurr’s valve to thrust, a few centimeters of rocking, the impact jarring when the base of the knot tugs at the lip of his valve and compresses his calipers so firmly they can't even bear down.
He sees spots, his optical input darkening around the edges. Every unhappy thing haunting his processes melts away entirely under Blaster’s touch, receding under the brewing thunderstorm of charge. Pure, uncomplicated pleasure.
Blurr's third overload hits him like a high voltage shock, his spinal strut torquing as he doubles forward. Blaster grips him through it, murmuring something Blurr can’t parse, except that it sounds low and full of praise.
He jerks his hips and the knot pops out in an incredible, intense stretch, a dizzying punctuation mark to his overload. His taxed systems flicker from top to bottom and everything goes dark, cocooning him inside the feeling of his own frame, a deep and dim space only marked by quieted thoughts and strut-deep satisfaction.
Blurr stays that way for a long time, his chronometer offering only a suggestion of how much time has passed. He's completely lax, his systems ticking down to baseline temperatures, external audio input only a muddy background noise over the sounds of his own spark spinning and the fuel rushing pleasantly through his lines.
When he comes around again, blinking his optics online, Blaster's put him on his back and is kneeling above him. He's tenderly wiping Blurr down with a damp cleaning sham, scrubbing away paint transfers and dried, flaking fluids. Blurr watches him work and is struck by the collected calm of his expression, the quiet admiration on his face when he runs a hand down Blurr's side paneling. Blurr's not sure anyone's ever actually looked at him like that before.
Blurr resets his vocal synthesizer twice before he can engage it. His voice is scratchy. "Thanks, I think. That was unexpected."
"You don't frag around much, do you," Blaster says, a casually delivered observation. He smiles at Blurr. "Too much of a market for lurid tales for your tastes?"
Blurr swallows and looks away. "Third or fourth time, you learn better than to spend much time with fans. If you’re not an idiot."
"Good thing I'm not a fan, then," Blaster says. Blurr whips his head back around, prepared to be annoyed again, but Blaster just winks jovially and disarms the feeling before it swells into indignation. "And good thing I'm one of the dying models of reporters that seems to have a shred of integrity."
"Frag your article," Blurr says abruptly. "Whatever they’re paying you to write about me, I'll double it for you to dodge the job."
"How about instead," Blaster says, tossing the sham aside and fishing out a half empty bottle of engex from beneath the berth, "we ditch the script. You have a couple drinks with me and tell me whatever you want me to know about you. If you get too bored or slagged off or whatever, I stick my tongue in your aft and make you squeal for a while." He pops the top on the bottle and takes a swig, passing it to Blurr. "Then I write an article that makes you look as interesting as you actually are, instead of like a hot little trophy piece."
The idea has some serious merit.
Blurr takes the engex and doesn't drink, balancing it on his abdominal plating and thumbing the lip of the bottle. Blurr's feeling relaxed. His valve clenches a little, sore in a good way. He could probably be in an even better mood with the right amount of persuasion. He watches Blaster. He's definitely hot as slag, especially viewed in retrospect — good with his mouth, good with his hands, good with Blurr's valve. Kind of sweet, in a rough way.
Makes up for his horrible as slag hab a little bit. And besides, it's still pouring outside. Really coming down out there. He doesn't want to have to strip and refinish his paint again; it never quite feels the same for the first few days.
"What makes you think I'm not a hot little trophy piece?" Blurr asks slowly, stretching his arm above his head to show off the line of his frame. He knows how he looks. He's had too many cameras in his face not to know.
"Hmm," Blaster says, his grin wicked, "if you are, the only pedestal I wanna put you on is my spike," and bends to kiss him while Blurr groans at the horrible, horrible joke.
*
BEST IN SHOW Blaster | Vorn 1303.2 in Culture, Entertainment | 83 comments
Blurr looks out of place in my shabby three room hab on the outskirts of Iacon. It’s the kind of place where mechs like him don’t usually wash up. Acid rain is sheeting down on the windows overlooking a fuel stop and a nightclub that no respectable mech would be caught dead at, but he’s staring hard at one of the posters on my wall — an old advertisement for the Polyhex Invitational, last held a few centuries before either of us were so much as a twinkle in a hotspot. We’re working past each other; he’s early and I’ve got deadlines.
His detailing alone indicates he’d be more at home at some swanky club in the Zephyr Heights, but the restless bouncing of his leg makes me wonder how much of that is a cover for a burning need to move.
I’ve got a list of questions. We start working through them and it rapidly becomes apparent that my standard tack just isn’t going to cut it with Blurr.
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