Jazz can’t remember the last time he saw something so enticing.
He’d snuck into Bluestreak’s room intending to surprise his partner. He never expected to stumble on a show.
He creeps in, whisper quiet, and barely vents as he watches. Not that he thinks Bluestreak will notice. His lover is too far gone, gasping and shivering as he rides the false spike braced on the berth beneath him, while he furiously pumps his own spike.
Bluestreak’s optics are shuttered, and his doorwings twitch as his hips move, sinking down on the spike and making little circles with each deep roll. He’s dribbling fluids all over the berth as he moans and gnaws on his bottom lip.
Jazz’s mouth waters. Bluestreak’s spike is seeping pre-fluid, and it’s slicking his fingers. His biolights pulse fitfully, a sure sign that he’s approaching overload. Every now and again, Jazz catches a glimpse of his anterior node, all swollen and bright.
It takes all Jazz has to merely watch while Bluestreak is so eager and enticing. Jazz wants to throw himself across the room and finish Bluestreak off himself.
He swallows down a moan as Bluestreak’s engine reaches a higher pitch, and he thrusts into his hand. As he gasps and hunches forward, free hand clawing at the berth. His spike spurts, his hips make aborted forward thrusts, and his vents clatter. No doubt his valve is rippling around the toy.
Jazz’s knees wobble. His frame flushes with heat.
Bluestreak’s pants are barely audible over his purring engine. His spike dribbles on the berth, leaving a mess Jazz wants to lick up.
“Did you enjoy the show?”
Jazz startles. Surely Bluestreak doesn’t–
Doorwings flick up and back. “I know you’re there, pet.” Blue’s optics unshutter and shift unerringly Jazz’s direction. “Don’t make me come after you.” He fondles his spike, a loose fist stroking himself from root to tip.
Jazz licks his lips.
“If you come out, I’ll let you clean me up,” Bluestreak promises as he thumbs the head of his spike, playing in the fluids gathered there. “And I won’t even punish you for failing to ask permission.”
Jazz’s engine turns over with a low rumble.
Bluestreak smirks and the sight of it does things to him. Things that make it impossible for Jazz to disobey.
Game. Set. Match.
“Ya promise?” he asks as he eases out of the shadows, heat lazily pumping through his lines.
“Cross my spark.” Bluestreak leans back onto his heels, enough that Jazz can see the lubricant seeping out around the false spike still in his valve. “Welcome back, Jazz.”
He licks his lips again.
Primus but it’s good to be home.