Bluestreak loves the little games they play. The push and pull, the give and take, the yielding. He loves how Jazz opens to him, how he fights, how he trembles and whimpers when Bluestreak keeps him on the edge. How he begs and begs for more.
But this, too, has its own merits. This is just as delightful, just as intoxicating. It is less a game, a scene, then it is worship. Bluestreak’s mouth on Jazz’s valve, lovingly sucking on each of his folds, licking over his anterior and posterior node clusters, making him squirm, and sigh, and moan.
This, too, is a delight for Bluestreak.
His own arousal is a roaring heated thing. Yet, he sets it aside, focused wholly on making Jazz squirm and whimper. Jazz’s thighs tremble near his head, armor clattering. His vents roar, his engine rumbles, and he drips a litany of pleas.
“Ah, babe, that’s so good. Right there. Ahhh, please, Blue. Suck me some more, please baby, please.”
And it’s heady. It’s intoxicating. As is the quiver of Jazz’s fingers, wrapped around his thighs, pulling his legs up and back, baring the entirety of his valve to Bluestreak’s worship.
He can easily reach the pulsing blue of Jazz’s anterior node cluster, bright and swollen with arousal. Each valve fold is plump and juicy, soaking in Jazz’s lubricants and Bluestreak’s oral attention. His posterior node is equally ripe, glistening beneath the tide of Jazz’s lubricant.
Bluestreak’s lips kiss each node cluster tenderly. His denta nip at them, ever so gently. His glossa laves long, wet stripes, the tip flicking across the nubs. He buries his face in Jazz’s valve, glossa plunging deeply into Jazz, tasting fresh pearls of lubricant, and feeling the shallowest calipers flutter around him.
He moans, the vibrations traveling against Jazz’s valve, and Jazz echoes him with a whimper, hips bucking, ankles drumming against his aft.
“Please, babe, please. More,” Jazz begs. His field rises and falls, sticky and hungry where it clasps at Bluestreak.
He nuzzles Jazz’s valve lips, in-vents the sweet scent of his lover’s arousal. His mouth and nose and cheeks are coated in lubricant, and he loves it.
“Jazz,” he murmurs, lifting his head, his lips grazing Jazz’s anterior node even as he seeks Jazz’s visor with his optics. “Give me a hand, sweetspark.”
“Huh?” Jazz sounds dazed, half-delirious, his lips raw where he’s been gnawing on them, his armor plates rattling, his engine revving.
Bluestreak’s lips brush over Jazz’s node again and again, short, sweet little brushes that must tease more than anything. “Hold yourself open for me?” he suggests, and licks each valve fold in turn. “Here and here. I want to go deep, so deep into you, taste as far as my glossa can reach, drink every little drop you’re going to give me.”
Jazz’s engine roars. His pedes thump to the berth to either side of Bluestreak’s shoulders, his hands surging toward his valve.
There’re few sights sweeter, hotter, more arousing, than his gorgeous sub displaying himself. Than Jazz’s fingers curling through his own lubricant, plunging into his valve, spreading himself open and wide, lubricant glistening within him, oh so tasty.
“Mmm, thank you,” Bluestreak murmurs and draws Jazz’s anterior node into his mouth, suckling upon it as though it were the smallest spike.
Jazz whines, his backstrut arching, head thumping back against the pillow. “Oh, Primus, Blue. Do that again,” he gasps, hips working in small rocks toward Bluestreak’s mouth.
So he does, suckling harder and harder, glossa flicking the tip, each little pass making Jazz twitch to the same rhythm. Lubricant pours from his valve, his fingers trembling where they hook around his valve folds, holding him open.
“Oh babe, that’s so good,” Jazz moans, feet digging into the berth, his thighs quivering and fully lifted from his protoform, showing the tantalizing web of cables beneath.
Bluestreak hums and lets Jazz’s anterior nub free with a pop. Jazz makes a noise of disappointment, but it melts into a whimper as Bluestreak finally takes the offer of Jazz’s valve. His glossa plunges into it, as deep as he can manage, nasal ridge rubbing against Jazz’s anterior node while his chin applies a loving pressure to his bottom nub.
Jazz rattles an ex-vent, his hips bucking. The first ring of calipers flutter around Bluestreak’s glossa, even as he curls it upward to grace that sensor cluster at the apex of Jazz’s interior valve rim. Jazz gasps a moan, his fingers slipping in his lubricant and he scrambles to open himself again.
“Ohh, Blue, I’m so close, so close. Keep going, please. I’ll do anythin’.” Jazz’s hips move in sharp, jerking motions, aborted attempts to ride Bluestreak’s face that are stalled given there’s no room to move.
Not with Bluestreak’s hands curled under his thighs and around, pinning down his hips. Not with his shoulders helping to keep his thighs spread wide. And not with Jazz spread so enticingly for him.
Bluestreak hums as he licks out again, returning his attention to Jazz’s valve folds. He nips at Jazz’s fingers, licking lubricant off of them, and Jazz quivers. He laps downward, finding Jazz’s posterior nub and giving it more attention, the little node swollen and bright and hungry.
Jazz keens, berth creaking as he digs his feet in, lifting his aft up by spare inches, rolling his valve against Bluestreak’s mouth.
“Oh, right there, right there, right there,” he chants as his hips rock with each syllable, urging Bluestreak onward. His hands shake as though he can barely hold on. His engine roars, a strangled sound.
He’s the hottest thing in the world.
Bluestreak’s own arousal skyrockets, his spike throbbing where it’s pinned between the berth and his own frame. He’s leaking, he knows he is, pre-fluid soaking the cover, but he doesn’t care. Not with Jazz’s lubricants dribbling down and making just as much as a puddle.
“Overload for me, Jazz,” Bluestreak says as he licks the length of Jazz’s valve in between each word, ending with a flick to Jazz’s anterior node, the taste of Jazz thick and sweet on his lips. “Come on, sweetness. Wanna see your pleasure. Wanna taste it. Wanna hear you coming undone.”
Jazz’s head tosses back, intake bared, denta gritted. He looses a sound, that’s maybe a moan, maybe a whimper. His hands tremble. He’s so close, Bluestreak can taste it in his field.
He buries his face against Jazz’s valve again, glossa plunging deep, nasal ridge grinding against Jazz’s anterior nub. He hums, a long, low note that vibrates against Jazz’s most tender area.
And Jazz shatters beneath him, hands snapping away from his valve to grab Bluestreak’s head as he curls forward and grinds down, riding Bluestreak’s face. His hips rise and surge, his valve throbbing and spilling lubricant, as his thighs clamp around Bluestreak’s shoulders, keeping him in place.
Bluestreak moans against Jazz’s valve, lapping up the lubricant as quickly as he can savor it, though it spills over his chin and onto the berth. All he can taste and hear and see is Jazz, coming undone with pleasure, valve a blaze of heat and pleasure. His hips jerk as Bluestreak presses kisses over his throbbing anterior node, now sensitive in the wake of such a powerful overload.
Jazz’s thighs loosen, granting Bluestreak ventilating space, but his hold on Bluestreak’s face tightens.
“Come here, come here,” he’s urging as he tugs, pulls upward, and Bluestreak willing slides up, until Jazz’s mouth falls over his, kiss hungry and consuming.
Bluestreak moans into the kiss, fumbling to get his knees beneath him, his hands planted awkwardly to either side of Jazz’s hips. His spike is throbbing, pushing against the berth, and he’s so close to overload he can taste it. Or maybe that’s just Jazz’s lubricant on his lips, and Jazz licking into him as though searching for the taste of himself.
Jazz’s field floods over his, trickling into Bluestreak’s seams, past his armor, against his substructure. Like it has tangible weight, physical fingers, stroking at Bluestreak’s very core. His spark throbs, hips thrusting against the berth. He makes an awkward grab at Jazz’s hips and holds on, panting against Jazz’s mouth, as overload unexpectedly jolts through his frame.
He spills transfluid onto the berth, spike tip catching on cover folds and splattering them. He shudders in Jazz’s grip, panting a moan over Jazz’s lips, his sensory panels flickering behind him. He trembles, wrecked in the aftermath, and Jazz must be, too, because he’s shaking.
“Damn it, you’re amazing, Blue,” Jazz says, nuzzling his face, not caring that he’s smearing his own lubricant over his cheeks.
He tips backward, hauls Bluestreak with him, who looses an awkward yelp as he finds himself splayed over Jazz, his lower half nestled between his smaller lover’s thighs. His softened spike twitches as it meets the soaking folds of Jazz’s valve.
“And you’re hotter than the Pit,” Bluestreak retorts as he shifts to make the position less awkward, hands sliding under Jazz’s shoulder in a pseudo-embrace. “Love to lick you out. Love to taste you. Love to make you sing for me.”
“Mmm. And I love that you love it.”
Jazz tugs him up into another kiss, glossas tangling, still tasting of lubricant and charge, Jazz venting heat like he’s raced a marathon, and Bluestreak no better. He moans, hips rolling against Jazz’s valve, spike seeking to re-pressurize once more. Jazz’s thighs press in on his hips, pinning him in place.
“Gonna get me started again,” Bluestreak says as he breaks away from the kiss to press their foreheads together.
Jazz smirks and licks at the corner of his mouth, no doubt grabbing a droplet of lubricant. “You say that as though it’s a bad thing.” He arches his back, limbs enclosing Bluestreak, hips rolling up toward his spike. “Come on, babe. Do me. Then ya can lick me clean.”
Bluestreak shivers, heat blooming rather quickly in his tank. “Why are you so tempting?” he asks as his pressurized spike makes little aborted thrusts against Jazz’s valve, slipping in all the lubricant soaking his folds.
“Well,” Jazz says with a laugh. “Ya know what they say. The way to a mech’s spark is through his tank.” His grin is wicked, as is the sparkle in his visor. “So bon apetit.”
Bluestreak laughs. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And all charged up, too,” Jazz says with a wriggle. “So come on, babe. Get that spike into me before I have to take it for myself.”
“Mmm, and we can’t have that,” Bluestreak murmurs before he steals Jazz’s lips again, indulging in a long, deep kiss to match his slow slide into Jazz’s valve.
Jazz shivers beneath and around him, his field as open as his frame, and this, Bluestreak knows, is just as intoxicating, as appealing, as the games they play.
All things in balance, after all.