It wasn’t often that Ratchet found himself with a sudden lapful of Jazz. But when there was a party involved, the potential was there.
So when Jazz dropped down into Ratchet’s lap, looped his arms over Ratchet’s shoulders, and scooted so close they shared ventilating space, Ratchet wasn’t surprised.
Except for the part where Jazz was both trembling — minute though it was — and radiating heat like a furnace. His visor was bright, his field open and needy, and he offered Ratchet a lop-sided grin.
“Can I help you?” Ratchet asked, firmly telling his spike to heel, though it leapt eagerly at his panel.
Jazz was very, very attractive. What could he say?
“I hope so.” Jazz laughed playfully — Ratchet knew an act when he saw one — and leaned in closer, his hips rolling until Ratchet could feel the scorching heat of his array.
Jazz’s lips brushed over Ratchet’s audial as he whispered, “Master said to tell you that I’m stuffed full and if you ping him, he’ll give you the key to play, too.”
“Is that so?” Ratchet’s spark thrummed with heat.
He lifted his orbital ridges and looked over Jazz’s shoulder, seeking Bluestreak through the crowd of Autobots having a grand-old time. There the Praxian sniper was, by the goodie table, seemingly deep in conversation with Smokescreen and Sideswipe. Yet, he noticed Ratchet looking, offering both a grin and a wink.
“Yeah.” Jazz squirmed rather enticingly. “He said — nnngh — he said I don’t get to overload unless — ahh — unless I can be good and convincing.” Little breathy ex-vents ghosted over Ratchet’s audial.
Enticing little sneak.
“Mmm. Did he now?” Ratchet feigned disinterest with all the mastery he had over his own frame. “And if you can’t convince me?”
Jazz’s engine whined. He pulled back, glossa sweeping over his lips, wetting them. A telltale dampness dripped onto Ratchet’s thighs.
“He didn’t say,” Jazz said with a groan.
“Didn’t think to ask, did you?” Ratchet grinned with a touch of devilish glee. “Think you’re that irresistible, hm?”
The question was a trap, and Jazz knew it.
He rolled his hips again, rightfully ignoring it. “I can be pretty fun to play with though,” he said.
Ratchet took a dismissive sip of his energon, doing a fine job of pretending to ignore the tasty dish straddling his thighs. “Maybe I’m not in the mood.”
Jazz’s engine whined. His field flared, thick and heavy with need. He twisted to look over his shoulder at Bluestreak, mouth drooped into a moue.
Bluestreak’s orbital ridges lifted. He twirled a finger as though telling Jazz to get back to work, before his attention drifted back to the conversation with his friends.
Jazz moaned in dismay. He sucked on his bottom lip. He leaked a little more, hands clenching where they rested on Ratchet’s shoulder.
“I’ll beg if ya want,” Jazz said, pleading now, his hips rocking and rolling to the beat of the music pouring from the speakers.
“If,” Ratchet echoed.
“Ahhngh, you two are Unicron spawn,” Jazz muttered subvocally before he rolled forward, grinding his array against Ratchet’s belly. “Please.”
“Mmm.” Ratchet paused for effect, taking another sip of his high grade. “No.”
Jazz groaned. He cast a dismayed look over his shoulder, and Bluestreak shook his head as if disappointed. His doorwings twitched upward and then drifted slowly down — a silent command.
Jazz sighed and started to scoot back.
Ratchet finished off his high grade and dispersed the cube with a flick of his fingers. His free hand curled around Jazz’s hip, cupping that delightful aft.
“Unless,” he said with a firm tap, “we move this somewhere a bit more private.”
Ratchet looked past Jazz’s shoulder, catching Bluestreak’s gaze. The sniper grinned and tipped his helm. Agreement. As was the ping to Ratchet’s comm.
Invitation extended. Invitation accepted. Perfect.
Jazz’s hips danced. “Never knew you were shy,” he purred, heedless to the conversation going on over his head.
“Hardly.” Ratchet gave Jazz’s aft another pat. “But as much as I’d love to make you lick up this mess you’ve made on me, no one here’s consented to a free show.”
Jazz’s tires wiggled. “F-fair point,” he stammered and rolled his hips again, leaving a streak of lubricant on Ratchet’s thighs. “Let’s go, Ratch. I’m about ta burst.”
Ratchet grinned and bopped Jazz’s nasal ridge. “Ah, ah,” he chastised, letting a low growl infect his vocal tones, one that tended to make all naughty subs weak in the knees.
“Tonight, you’ll call me ‘sir.’”