07: When Opportunity Knocks
The invitation was not unexpected.
The offer to attend, with a guest and while in role; however, was.
“And who might this guest be, hmm?” Jazz drawled as he draped himself over Bluestreak’s lap, trying to make an appealing picture of himself.
Bluestreak rolled his optics. “Gee, I wonder.” He rested his hand on Jazz’s belly, feeling his abdominal cables flex beneath his palm. “Well. You wanna go? Up for a little show and tell? Maybe even some playtime?”
Jazz shivered and stretched his arms over his head. He arched his back alluringly. He knew exactly what he was doing, the minx.
“I’m so tempted,” he purred as he folded his arms behind his head and wriggled on Bluestreak’s lap. “I know ya wanna show me off and I’ve heard things about their little shows.”
Bluestreak blinked. “Wait. You’ve never been?”
Jazz shook his head. “Prowl don’t like me,” he admitted with a lopsided grin. “Never could figure why.”
He remembered Prowl’s reaction to Ratchet’s mere suggestion of Jazz. Bluestreak was starting to get an inkling, and he suspected it had little to do with any of the reasons Jazz had already hypothesized.
It was less to do with liking, and more to do with possession.
“Ahh,” Bluestreak said, and grinned down at his partner. “Doesn’t answer my question though. Why only tempted?”
Jazz squirmed a bit more, until he managed to nudge Bluestreak’s hand from his belly to his groin. “Don’t mind puttin’ on a show or being watched or playing with whoever, and I wanna see ya show off, too.” He hummed as his panels slid aside, the tangy scent of his lubricant filling the air as his spike spiraled out to nudge Bluestreak’s fingers. “But I dunno if I can handle sharing.”
Bluestreak curled his fingers around Jazz’s spike and gave it a long, lingering stroke. Hot metal throbbed in his grasp, pre-fluid beading up and trickling down to dampen his fist. Jazz sighed a moan and rolled into his fist, his frame shivering.
“You don’t mind my sessions with Ratchet,” Bluestreak pointed out, even as his gaze roamed over Jazz’s frame appreciatively.
Jazz’s hips rolled upward, pumping steadily into Bluestreak’s grasp as his plating visibly shivered. “That’s different.”
Jazz moaned and his engine purred. “’Cause I’m yours.”
Bluestreak had been right.
He squeezed Jazz’s spike, giving him a harsher stroke, and grinned when Jazz whined and thrust into his grip, arms unfolding to to clutch at Bluestreak’s thighs beneath his aft.
“It’s not about you then,” Bluestreak said. “It’s about me.”
Jazz held his gaze, even as he pumped his hips into Bluestreak’s fist, his spike throbbing faster and faster. “Don’t want anyone gettin’ any ideas once they see how sexy you are. Especially not Prowl.”
Bluestreak chuckled. “I don’t think we need to worry about that, but fair enough. We don’t have to play. We can accept the invite without it. It’s an offer, not a requirement.”
Though the idea of letting his pretty play with Ratchet’s pretty was very enticing. All that black and white tangled together made him shiver. Prowl was so eager to serve, too. And he had so much more training.
The mental image of Prowl’s mouth wrapped around Jazz’s spike made Bluestreak’s engine rev.
If Jazz was not comfortable, then that was all Bluestreak needed to know.
“Okay,” Jazz murmured and wriggled under Bluestreak’s hand again as if in reminder that he was here and hungry.
Bluestreak hummed appreciatively, thumbing the tip of Jazz’s spike almost offhand. Wouldn’t do to let Jazz know how enticing he was. “Though you and Prowl aren’t so different, you know?”
Jazz’s visor flickered. “Huh?”
Bluestreak cupped Jazz’s head with his free hand, tickling his fingers over the sensitive horns. “He doesn’t mind ‘me,’ but he didn’t like the idea of Ratchet interacting with another sub. You’re both possessive little pretties.”
“Well, I guess that’s cause we know we got the best masters.” Jazz moaned and sucked on his bottom lip. His pedes pushed at the berth. “Ah, babe. Won’t ya frag me?”
Bluestreak squeezed Jazz’s spike and tamped down on his own amusement. He leaned back, admiring the roll and writhe of his lover’s frame. Jazz could put on quite the show when he wanted something, and now was no exception. His spike throbbed needily, dripping pre-fluid, and Bluestreak could already feel lubricant leaking onto his thigh from where Jazz had bared his valve.
“Now is that the proper way to ask me for something, pet?” Bluestreak purred.
Jazz’s engine whined. He clutched at Bluestreak’s thigh and the berth, his abdominal cables flexing. “Ahhhh, please, sir. I’m achin’ and I need ya,” he pleaded. His head turned toward Bluestreak, lower lip wobbling and swollen from where he’d been nibbling on it.
“Close, but not quite,” Bluestreak teased and tightened his grip on Jazz’s spike, squeezing out a steady dribble of pre-fluid. “I want you to overload like this. Soak my fingers. Give me a show, pet.”
Jazz panted and arched his back, hips pumping into Bluestreak’s grip. His hands clawed at nothing, patting over Bluestreak’s thighs, the air, the berth beneath him. His head tilted back, lips parted in breathy moans.
“Any… any time I want?” he asked, his thighs parting as though inviting Bluestreak to dip between them. The sweet scent of lubricant thickened.
Bluestreak’s mouth watered.
Bluestreak hummed approvingly. He swept his thumb over Jazz’s transfluid slit, teasing the tip into the dripping opening. “Yes.”
Jazz’s back bowed. He keened and finally grabbed at the berth above his head, nearly knocking away Bluestreak’s hand from his horns in the process. His heels kicked at the berth as he panted, thrusting madly up into Bluestreak’s grip.
His frame rattled on Bluestreak’s lap, spilling heat into the space between them. Lust spooled in his field, pushing at Bluestreak’s own, and Bluestreak shivered. He watched, enraptured, as Jazz came undone on his lap, plating flared wide, charge crawling out to dance over his armor.
His spike pulsed. More lubricant soaked Bluestreak’s armor. His own panels juttered, threatening to reveal his equipment, and only practice kept him restrained.
Bluestreak stroked Jazz’s helm. He tweaked Jazz’s sensory horn as he purred encouragingly, “Come on, pretty. Overload for me. Let me see your pleasure.”
Jazz gasped, his visor flaring. He thrust up into Bluestreak’s grip and the berth creaked noisily. He moaned, long and low, tapering off into a whine, as he overloaded, transfluid spurting from his spike and splashing down on Bluestreak’s fingers.
He made quite the picture, his visor flaring bright, his faceplate flush, his vents whirring and his armor gapped to reveal tantalizing bits of his substructure. He writhed on Bluestreak’s lap, panting orally, before he abruptly sank down, hips still pumping upward in little aborted motions to slide through Bluestreak’s sticky fingers.
“Very nice,” Bluestreak murmured, and cupped Jazz’s head, even as he gentled his hold on Jazz’s spike.
Jazz nuzzled into his palm, pressing a small kiss to the inside of his wrist. “Is good,” he said, ex-venting heat against Bluestreak’s substructure.
Bluestreak chuckled. “You’re welcome.” He fingered Jazz’s spike a little longer before letting the semi-pressurized length slip from his fingers. “You did, however, make a mess.”
Jazz moaned softly. “Sorry, sir. I’ll clean it for ya.” He licked Bluestreak’s inner wrist, lip curving with mischief.
“I know you will.” Bluestreak offered Jazz his hand, dripping transfluid on Jazz’s chin as a result.
Jazz reached up and curled fingers around his wrist, tugging his hand the rest of the way, wrapping his lips around the first of Bluestreak’s digits. He moaned, field flushing with arousal, visor fluttering.
Bluestreak’s own arousal simmered like a high grade still, but not so much he couldn’t endure it a while yet. He prided himself on his control, and besides, there was something enticing in denying himself the pleasure.
Jazz lovingly cleaned each finger, one by one, before he switched to long laps of his glossa over Bluestreak’s palm, his engine purring as he focused on the task.
“You never answered me,” Bluestreak said as he stroked his free hand around the curve of Jazz’s head. “Do you want to accept the invitation?”
Jazz paused in his cleaning, his glossa sweeping over his lips. “Yeah. I do.”
Jazz nuzzled Bluestreak’s palm, his visor a soft shade of blue. “I can wear my collar?”
Bluestreak stroked the length of a sensory horn, drawing a shiver from his pretty. “And your leash, though it’ll have to wait until we get past the door or someone will stare and you know how much everyone around here likes to gossip.”
“Yeah. I’m good at gettin’ those rumors started.” Jazz chuckled before his tone turned serious. “I wanna go, and mebbe if ya want, I’ll play wit Prowl.” He drew Bluestreak’s thumb into his mouth, giving the tip a light nip. “But you can’t.”
“Fair enough.” Bluestreak slid his thumb free and dragged his fingers down over Jazz’s chin, then his intake, and up over the rise of his bumper. “I suspect Prowl will have the same caveat, which means Ratchet and I will have a lot of fun plotting what we’re going to do to the two of you.” His fingers continued southward, teasing Jazz’s abdominal cables, his pelvic span, and flirting over his softened spike.
Jazz shivered and spread his thighs. “Wouldn’t mind watchin’ the two of ya kiss, though,” he said with a little urgent noise in his intake.
“Me and Ratchet?”
Jazz’s hips canted toward Bluestreak’s fingers, trying to guide them right where Bluestreak wanted to go, which was between his thighs to dip into the dewy wetness gathered on Jazz’s rim.
Bluestreak laughed. “I’ll see what I can do.” He circled Jazz’s anterior node slowly, watching his lover’s face flush with heat and his fans slowly spin back up again. Only then did he ease a single finger into Jazz’s valve, purring at the hot clutch of eager calipers. “Until then…”
“Yer gonna frag me, right?” Jazz asked, his thighs clamping down on Bluestreak’s hand as though trapping him in place. “Or am I gonna hafta beg again?”
“I dunno. I kinda like the sound of you begging.” Bluestreak curled his fingers, stroking a bundle of nodes just behind the inner rim of Jazz’s valve.
A low sound rumbled out of Jazz’s engine. “Then I’ll say whatever ya want if it means ya’ll spike me.”
Bluestreak grinned and slid a second finger into his lover, thoroughly enjoying the way Jazz arched his back and whimpered. His valve rippled, more lubricant spilling out to soak Bluestreak’s fingers.
“Impress me,” he purred.
Jazz rocked down against his fingers, his glossa sweeping over his lips. “Give me somethin’ hard.”
“I intend to,” Bluestreak said with a laugh, one that stripped away the building tension of the moment, but in a good way.
Jazz snickered. “Primus, yer so good ta me, Blue. Glad I snagged ya.”
“Pretty sure I grabbed you, but if it makes you feel better to think that clumsy effort at wooing me worked, than feel free,” Bluestreak said. He stroked his fingers around the curve of Jazz’s face. “I don’t mind at all.”
Jazz turned in toward his palm again, giving it a kiss. “So good ta me.”
Bluestreak smiled and reward Jazz with a third finger, one that curled ever so slightly and rubbed along that sensor cluster that made Jazz writhe.
He had to start planning. If Jazz was up for potential playtime with Ratchet’s pretty, well, Bluestreak wanted to give him a fun opportunity. He suspected Ratchet would be up for it as well.
He couldn’t wait.