[Transformers G1] Undisclosed Desires
Dec. 2nd, 2012 12:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: So this isn't beta'ed. I kinda rushed it so I could have it posted by today. I plan to find someone to look it over later and update this posting with a refreshed version. It's readable but there are probably some grammatical errors. The prompt for this one pretty much took over my brain and refused to leave me alone. And Blue/Jazz is one of my growing OTPs....
Anyway. Enjoy! Oh and this is very much NSFW. Title and cut text borrowed from the song that inspired the piece, Undisclosed Desires, by Muse.
Title: Undisclosed Desires
Universe: G1
Rating: NC-17
Pairings/Characters: Bluestreak/Jazz, Smokescreen, Blaster, Hound
Warnings: dom/sub relationship, pnp and tactile, painplay, breathplay, bondage, dirty talk, some aspects of dubcon
Description: What Jazz needed, Bluestreak provided.
For tf-rare-pairings prompt Jazz/Bluestreak, this is how you play this game.
“Do you have a six?”
“Nope. Go Fish.”
Bluestreak cycled his optics down, staring at his fellow Praxian. “Y'know, Smokey. I'm starting to think that you're lying to us.”
Smokescreen laughed, lounging back in his chair, the perfect picture of innocence and poise. “I wouldn't do that, Blue. Not over a card game.”
“Which means,” Hound said with warm humor. “That he lies for other reasons.” He shuffled his cards, peering at them intently. “Gotta King?”
“Nope,” Smokescreen replied and flashed all of them a bright grin. “Go Fish.”
“Lying,” Bluestreak sang, subvocally, but he pulled a card of his own before Hound did so as well.
“Seriously, my mechs?” Another voice chimed in from behind Bluestreak, prompting everyone to lift their optics, and Bluestreak's doorwings to twitch. “Go Fish? Wasn't there anything else to do?”
“Jazz!” Blaster lifted a hand in greeting. “When did you get back?”
A heavy weight settled against Bluestreak's back, Jazz positioning himself between the flat planes of his doorwings and inviting himself into Bluestreak's personal space. The warm buzz of his energy field tingled over Bluestreak's senses, and he let heat flood his faceplates, shifting beneath the weight of the special ops mech.
“Just now. Had to stop in and see my mechs before I submitted myself to Hatchet's vengeance,” Jazz replied, laying his chin on the top of Bluestreak's helm. “Found me a comfortable chair it looks like, too.”
Laughter rung around the table.
Bluestreak's doorwings twitched again.
“Your chair's going to blow a fuse if you don't give him some breathing room,” Smokescreen observed with a sly look. “Ventilate, Blue. Seriously. You'll overheat.”
He huffed, idly shuffling his cards. “No, I won't,” Bluestreak replied, tossing Smokescreen an annoyed look, though he could feel his faceplate darken as Jazz reached out, dragging his fingers over the top-most edge of Bluestreak's right doorwing.
Tonight? the gesture asked. No, pleaded.
Not that any of their friends would know that.
Hound shook his helm and nudged Blaster with an elbow. “Your turn.”
Jazz chuckled. “Come on, my mechs. There has to be something better to do than this. I've never seen a more pathetic and bored group of soldiers.”
Smokescreen smirked, pushing back in his chair and patting one knee pointedly. “Could spice things up, if you want. I don't think little Blue is as amenable to your charms.”
“He could be, if he wanted,” Jazz all but purred with another slow slide of his fingers, this time down the interior of the doorwing.
No one else could see it, but Bluestreak could feel it. The subtle tremble in those fingers, the ragged control on the edge of Jazz's energy field. The minute shudder of the plating pressed against his backplate.
His right doorwing twitched again, this time with purpose, pushing away from Jazz's fingers rather than toward it. Another silent gesture. Acceptance.
Tonight, he agreed.
“If that twitch was anything to go by, I'd say he doesn't,” Smokescreen said, humor making his rich voice sultry.
Bluestreak edged away from Jazz, though everything within him strained to fix, to see to the pain that his lover was under. Not now, he told himself firmly. Not now.
“I'm right here, you know,” he said, giving his fellow Praxian an annoyed look. “I can hear you. I'm not deaf. Jazz is just teasing. He does that a lot. I'm not a kid, you know.”
A small flick against his doorwing. A warning. And then Jazz drew away, reluctance pulsing in his energy field so quickly that only Bluestreak could catch the emotion.
“Yeah, we know,” Jazz said, his tones warm and teasing, and maybe only Bluestreak could hear their undercurrent, the slight clip, the wavery warble at the end. “Sorry, Blue.”
Or not.
Blaster had this look on his faceplate. His helm tilted to the side, his optics sharp and surveying, darting as they were, between Jazz and Bluestreak.
“Not offended,” Bluestreak huffed, dropping his gaze from the curious communications officer and hastily reshuffled his cards. “Whose turn is it anyway? Aren't we supposed to be playing a game here?”
“Classic change of subject,” Smokescreen said in a loud whisper, nudging Hound with his shoulder as he straightened in his chair, losing the lazy slouch. “It's still Blaster's.”
“Putting on the pressure but I can take the stress.” Blaster rolled his shoulders and his neck, like a human gearing up for a boxing match. “Gimme all your Aces, Smokey. I know ya got the rest. There's always one or two up your sleeve.”
Smokescreen's jaw dropped and he loosed a groan of disappointment. “Frag, Blaster. How do you do that, mech?”
“Skill and talent and startling good looks,” Blaster replied with a smirk, holding a palm out for the aforementioned cards.
Jazz shook his helm at the lot of them. “I'm outta here before ya bore me to recharge with this game. Later.”
A fist bump between himself and Blaster and then Jazz vanished out of the rec room, Bluestreak hoped, off to see Ratchet. Though his seemingly cheerful self, Jazz had looked tired and worn around the edges. There was also the light odor of scorched circuits around his frame.
What was it this time, Bluestreak wondered. What had he done in the name of the Autobot cause?
Who had he failed?
A chit pinged off Bluestreak's chevron and he frowned, reaching up to rub the dinged metal. “What was that for?”
“Not paying attention,” Smokescreen chastised, waggling a finger at him. “I asked you a question, little Blue.”
He forced himself to return to the game, giving his friends an embarrassed smile, faceplate flushing again. “Oops. Sorry. Processor wandered. What was the question again?”
Hound chuckled. “Wandered to where, I wonder?” he said, but it was meant to tease as he waggled his cards at Bluestreak. “He wants your Twos.”
Bluestreak barely glanced at his cards, having lost the rhythm of the entire game, and pulled out what Smokescreen wanted. “It just wandered,” he retorted. “Can we change the subject now?” He added a touch of desperation to his vocals, drawing upon the many, many times he'd seen the mechs tease Spike to the point of storming off in an mortified huff.
Laughter flickered around the table. But they did change the subject and the teasing was dropped.
For now.
o0o0o
Several games and a patrol with Tracks later, Bluestreak returned to his quarters, usually shared with Beachcomber but the geologist was currently out exploring some interesting mountains out in Asia. Bluestreak had only been half-listening at the time, absorbing the details regarding how long Beachcomber would be gone and nothing else.
He would be alone for the better part of a month. Bluestreak didn't mind. He actually liked the silence, though none of his fellow Autobots believed him. They worried and it was nice to be worried about, except when it became overbearing and then all Bluestreak wanted was silence.
Worry inspired questions requiring answers and Bluestreak couldn't share the answers. Too much familiarity bred truth and that, again, was something Bluestreak didn't dare hand over. So he kept his secrets and buried them beneath the innocence, the youthful facade, the babble. As long as he was rambling, no one paid too much attention to the actual words and that was the key.
His door opened with a soft whuff of air, and the darkness of his quarters greeted him. Well, dark save for the one lamp Bluestreak knew hadn't been on when he left. He was not alone and well, that wasn't unexpected.
He stepped inside, door shutting behind him, and a tap to the panel locked it. Not that Bluestreak expected someone to barge in on him, but then, it wouldn't be the first time Sideswipe snuck into his quarters for some kind of prank. Oh, Sideswipe could hack the lock, but not quickly and by the time he got through, Bluestreak would have all the warning he needed.
His optics swept through the room, taking in the ordered chaos that resulted from two mechs sharing living space no matter how well the two got along. The shadows by Bluestreak's console shifted, and a small part of him was surprised that said shadows hadn't taken a perch upon the berth.
“Keep it up and we won't have a secret anymore,” Bluestreak said into the darkness, choosing against turning on the overhead lights. The lamp would be enough.
The soft rumble of a high-performance engine purred through the room. “The best secrets're hidden in plain sight.”
He reached up, detaching his cannon and setting it aside for cleaning later, leaving his shoulder feeling too light. “It's your aft on the line, not mine,” Bluestreak said and paused, a smirk curling his lipplate. “Then again, I know how much that excites you.”
A dark chuckle slithered through the room. “Primus, you're a terror.”
“You love me for it.”
“That and other things.” The shadows shifted, the glimmer of a visor reflected in the dim light offered by the lamp. “I need ya, Blue.”
This, also, was expected.
“I thought you might.” Bluestreak approached his desk, and by proxy, the chair, the shadows clarifying into the mech perched backward upon said chair. His arms were braced across the back of it, chin resting on his crossed wrists.
“Tell me, sweetspark. What am I taking this time?” he asked, his vocals soft, hand lifting to cup the dark helm, thumb brushing over the edge of cheek plating.
Jazz's faceplate turned into his palm with a slow, dragging nuzzle, his visor offlining. The shudder that raced through his frame was tangible.
“Ev'rythin'.”
A tall order, but not unusual. Bluestreak's doorwings flickered, Jazz's energy field rising up in slow, spiraling entreaty. Asking without words. Begging, truth be told.
Bluestreak's spark began a careful, throbbing rhythm. His free hand lifted, a single finger hooking in Jazz's collar fairing.
“Limits?”
“Don't need 'em.”
His finger pushed past the rim of the armor, brushing against sensory lines, and buried beneath those, a main energon line. “That's not how we do this, Jazz. Limits?”
Jazz trembled, Bluestreak could think of no better word for it, his control on the perilous edge of breaking. Hands bracing against the chair formed into fists.
“Gotta shift in the afternoon,” Jazz finally forced out, vocalizer crackling. He pressed his helm firmly against Bluestreak's hand. “Can't have any rumors.”
“Nothing that can't self-repair overnight. Understood. Terms?”
Jazz's lips parted, his glossa flicking against Bluestreak's palm, the tension in his frame making his armor rattle. As though he were going to fall apart any moment now and only his tenuous grip on sanity was keeping him together.
“Break me,” he murmured, lips moving against Bluestreak's palm. “Please.”
Energy field rising and falling, blanketing over Jazz, Bluestreak's helm dipped. “Shh,” he replied, fingers soothing over the cables in Jazz's throat before withdrawing. “I've got you.”
Quiet filled his quarters as Bluestreak considered. Pain was not an option, at least not the sort that Jazz really wanted. For that, he would need days for recuperation, time for Jazz to heal by self-repair and whatever Bluestreak could fix on his own. This was time they did not have, and hadn't since the crash-landing here on Earth.
Pain, then, in moderation. Dents could be popped out, paint easily touched up.
To break, however?
Bluestreak's ventilations became slow and even as he considered.
Not all pain was physical. But he would have to be careful. For this type of pain could be the most damaging and the line between suffering and solace could be very thin indeed. Sometimes, the cure could be worse than the condition.
He would have to be observant, more so than usual. In Jazz's current state, he would allow Bluestreak to go too far, purposefully refusing to acknowledge his limits.
Yes, Bluestreak would have to be cautious indeed. He would not, however, fail. Jazz trusted him with this vulnerability, and Bluestreak would continue to prove himself worthy of that trust.
Nodding to himself, Bluestreak onlined his optics. Jazz had not moved, though the tremors racing through his frame remained. He waited, patiently, for Bluestreak to begin. He would have to reward that patience.
Grimly, Bluestreak stroked his fingers over the side of Jazz's helm, feeling the way Jazz pressed into the gentle touch. Acknowledging. Permitting. Submitting.
Bluestreak struck.
It was an open-palmed smack to the side of Jazz's helm, deliberately placed to jar Jazz's sensory horn, with enough force to rock the chair to the side and throw Jazz out of it. The saboteur tumbled, the blow unexpected. He had known something was coming, but Bluestreak had made it a personal goal to never be predictable. It was the only way to ensure that this worked.
Jazz caught himself. He wasn't the third in command of the Autobots for nothing. His helm snapped up, visor blazing, lipplates curled back. His energy field blazed, rippling with indignation, but beneath it, the need and the challenge. The violence was enough to propel him straight from needy submissive into defensive protocols, activating that troublesome saboteur programming, the true root of the issue.
Make me, it said.
Bluestreak flared his doorwings.
Jazz's engine rumbled, anger spiking. “Ya--”
Bluestreak struck again, a backhanded blow that held nothing back. He felt the hard crystal of Jazz's visor splinter against his knuckles, but that was trivial. Jazz had more. What was important was the approaching feeling of helplessness, the lack of vision now that Jazz's visor flickered on and off, rebooting over and over to no avail.
Jazz stumbled, catching himself on one hand, balance askew. His gyros had to be misfiring just as Bluestreak intended.
“Get up,” Bluestreak demanded.
The saboteur snarled again, shaking his helm as if in a vain attempt to clear the unbalance. He crouched, feral.
“Get. Up.”
The order was given. Bluestreak could see the war within, the way Jazz quailed at obeying, but a part of him was involuntary. He shifted as though to rise, hydraulics hissing in the quiet, trained to never back down, fight to the last firing circuit.
He could not be permitted to do. Let the disconnect between the command and the punishment throw him further off-balance.
Bluestreak struck again, force carefully applied, another backhand that finally sent Jazz sprawling. Paint scraped on his knuckles, easily fixed, and a few armor panels dented. All minor. The limits held.
“Worthless pile of slag,” Bluestreak taunted, keeping his vocals low and cold, holding none of their earlier warmth. He couldn't be Bluestreak right now. He was somebody else, and he knew, without having to ask, how Jazz's addled processor was connecting here to then, matching tone to tone and responding accordingly. “You're a waste of my time. I said get up.”
Anger spiked. Servos whine as Jazz forced his frame to obey him, pushing himself to his knees, then his pedes. His visor spat fractured light. Jazz lurched, swinging out with an uncoordinated fist.
Bluestreak easily dodged the blow, snatching Jazz's wrist, fingers clamping around it. His thumb dug in, pushing against thin armor plating, burrowing through bundles of cables, pressing on a sensor nexus buried beneath. Pressure points, he'd once heard Spike describe them as. And quite apt, he thought.
Jazz choked back a scream, dropping to a knee, quailing as pain radiated from his arm outward. He was down, but not out, and Bluestreak knew he'd recover quickly. Special Ops protocols were already working to sever the distraction.
“Pathetic,” Bluestreak sneered, jerking on the wrist. “Your master would be ashamed.”
A half-lit visor attempted to glare, Jazz working his jaw but vocalizer saying nothing.
“Get up.”
Servos shrieked, the gears in Jazz's wrist scraping together as Bluestreak squeezed. Jazz's free hand balled into a fist, those protocols coming through. His plating flexed.
“Get up,” Bluestreak said, again.
Jazz moved, fast as always, hampered by half-vision, pain, and unstable gyros, but still dangerous. Bluestreak was ready.
He shifted to avoid Jazz's attack, twisted the wrist he held, and forced it up behind Jazz's back. He pushed, slamming Jazz facefirst into the wall, trapping the saboteur between the wall and his own bulkier frame. He pulled on Jazz's wrist, straining the servo motors in Jazz's shoulder and prompting an involuntary gasp of pain from his lover. Plating buckled but it was minor, easy enough to be popped out.
Jazz snarled, inarticulate, and jerked an elbow backward but Bluestreak grabbed that arm as well, twisting it behind Jazz and pinning them both in place. Jazz pushed forward, pedes against the floor, trying to ease the pressure on his shoulders. In response, Bluestreak pulled up higher, straining the limits of Jazz's flexibility.
“You're an embarrassment,” he chastised, striking Jazz's defeat home as he shoved a knee between Jazz's legs, further pinning him to the wall.
Jazz vibrated, energy field rife with rage and desperation and pain. It slapped back against Bluestreak, the only weapon he had left, and underneath it all, the spark-deep need to fight before he could let himself surrender.
Their plating scraped together, a whine of metal against metal. Jazz huffed, ventilations strained, more so when Bluestreak pressed against him from behind, blocking off his dorsal vents. Heat emanated from Jazz's frame, dumped into the air, washing against Bluestreak. His own fans sought to kick on, but he pushed that down.
“Your best wasn't good enough, it seems,” Bluestreak said, keeping his voice low and even, taunting perhaps. “Bested by a sniper of all mechs. No wonder the Decepticons are winning.” He transferred Jazz's wrists to one hand and let the other grasp Jazz's hip, fingers groping for the interface port protected by a heavy panel. “Show me.”
“Frag off!” Jazz struggled, but it was half-sparked at best. His ventilations were getting heavier and heavier, strained as they were, the longer Bluestreak trapped him against the wal
He traced the edges of the panel, over and over, detecting fear as an undercurrent to the anger. This was always the hardest part.
“Show me,” Bluestreak repeated, finger catching on the edge of the panel and tugging, not enough to buckle the plating, but to prove a point. He would if he had to. “Open.”
Jazz's systems whined. His mouth opened, drawing in cooling bursts of air from his last resort as his blocked vents were useless. Panic settled in. Bluestreak could feel it, the way Jazz twitched and struggled.
Another push then.
He reached into his subspace, removing a pair of magna-cuffs, slapping them around Jazz's wrists so that he could have both hands free. Jazz made another inarticulate noise at the sound of the cuffs, his struggles beginning anew.
Bluestreak reached around, clapping one hand over Jazz's mouth. The other returned to the hidden port pointedly. He let his energy field unfurl, rising up and crashing down on Jazz, wrapping around him as firmly as Bluestreak's own frame kept the mech confined. If there was one thing that Jazz despised, that he loathed to his very core, it was being trapped. The humans called it claustrophobia and perhaps it was similar enough.
“Show me,” Bluestreak said, voice firmer this time, edging toward a demand. His fingers pressed against Jazz's panel, leaving no room for confusion. He did not want to force it.
Please, he thought, do not make me force you.
Jazz's entire frame shook. Bluestreak could hear the distinct pop-fizzle of blown circuits, and felt the heat pouring from Jazz's plating.
“Now,” Bluestreak demanded.
A low, broken moan spilled from Jazz's vocalizer, his struggles weakening. His energy field flared, the conflict so evident.
Bluestreak steeled himself, sensing the surrender to come, accessing protocols that he usually kept buried. None of the Autobots, save Jazz now, even knew he possessed these. No one knew what he used to be, and Bluestreak intended to keep it that way. He would not speak of them, but he would use them if only to protect Jazz.
The saboteur's plating lifted away from his frame, vulnerability defined, a desperate attempt to cool his overheated circuits. But it did little good and only gave Bluestreak the opening he needed to drag his fingers upward, burying them between the wide gaps in Jazz's armor and press hard on tender sensors.
Jazz whined behind Bluestreak's hand and the sound of his panel clicking open was loud in the silence.
Victory.
Bluestreak dropped his hand from Jazz's face, his lover taking in huge, gulping draws of air from his mouth.
“Good mech,” Bluestreak said, his hand now free to wander to Jazz's panel, digging into the sensitive port for a moment, feeling Jazz attempt to twitch away from him, but having nowhere to go.
“Don't – ah – patronize me,” Jazz said, the last syllables edged toward a growl.
Bluestreak pulled out a cable, clicking it home in Jazz's port, feeling the buffer of a firewall immediately rise up. Jazz was going to make it even more difficult, was he? All right then.
“Don't make this harder than it needs to be,” Bluestreak retorted and leaned forward, chassis pressing into Jazz's dorsal plating, his mouth hovering over Jazz's sensory horn and glossa flicking against it.
Jazz shuddered, energy field fluxing, warbling mid-air.
Bluestreak prodded at the firewalls, feeling them give under the tentative touch. Ah, so it was bravado after all. He pushed harder.
“Blue,” Jazz moaned, vocalizer crackling with repressed emotion. “Don't.”
He waited, pausing to dig deep into Jazz's energy field, sensing the anxiety and the shame, but beneath it all, the desperation. Jazz wanted this as much as he loathed it and Bluestreak would do him no favors by stopping.
“No,” Bluestreak said firmly and gathered up his data-self, throwing all that he had learned over a lifetime at Jazz's firewalls.
They collapsed like a house of cards, crumbling beneath his onslaught, revealing themselves for the pretense they were. An illusion of resistance. He often wondered if there was even an Autobot among them that could withstand the sort of training Bluestreak carried. Ratchet perhaps. Prime and his Matrix.
Jazz sagged, pushing himself against the wall, as though it would provide solace from the intrusion.
The pathways were open to Bluestreak and he knew, from previous times, exactly where to go. He ignored the other tracts, enticing they might be, and headed straight for Jazz's most recently archived memories. These were still close to the surface, the emotional and physical sensations tangible.
Sound and color and sensation bombarded Bluestreak from all directions. The sharp tang of energon. The acrid odor of burnt circuits and seared plating. The startled shriek of a Decepticon taken off guard. The brilliant ball of blue-white fire as it rippled through a hallway. The tacky feel of half-congealed energon, sticky under-pede. The resistance of armor as an energon dagger tore through it, snaring the lines and cables beneath.
And above it all, the sharp-bright bursts of Jazz's emotions. The sense of victory and accomplishment, the grin curving his lips, the pangs of guilt pushed down as quickly as they dared emerge. Shame could not exist in his programming. It wasn't allowed.
“You enjoyed it,” Bluestreak said, his voice barely above a whisper, but it didn't need to be loud to make an impact.
Not when he had the memories to serve as a hammer, bringing them up and refusing to allow Jazz to archive them, slot them away to be forgotten.
Jazz's fingers twitched, brushing against Bluestreak's abdominal array. “No.”
“You did.” He closed his optics, leaning his cheek against Jazz's sensory horn, knowing the vibrations of his energy field would be an ever-present burr against his lover's sensory net. “How many sparks, Jazz?”
Jazz's vocalizer clicked with a failure to engage.
“How. Many?”
“T-twelve.”
Jazz's shoulders hunched, as though he were trying to curl into himself, but the awkward angle of his arms prevented it.
“Your hands. Your bombs.” Bluestreak's denta clenched down on the soft metal of the sensory horns, leaving impressions behind and constricting the delicate circuits beneath. “Your joy.”
“Necessary.”
“That's your excuse,” Bluestreak all but hissed, free hand buried in Jazz's hip circuity, grabbing a hydraulic line and tugging sharply.
Jazz arched against the wall, helm tipping back toward Bluestreak, hips attempting to jerk away and only succeeding in clanging against the wall.
“They were orders,” Jazz near-shouted, fighting now. Himself and Bluestreak both, the painful truth of his own memories, the incisive bursts of Bluestreak's words.
Bluestreak curled a finger around the line, pulling it further, and warnings streaked through Jazz's systems, transferred in a blink through the connection. “Convenient that, these orders that let you kill without reservation.”
A wordless snarl burst from Jazz's vocalizer, his helm pressed to the wall, Bluestreak's lipplates brushing his sensory horn. “Necessary.”
“Liar.”
Bluestreak pulled up another image, energon splashing into the open air, dripping onto Jazz's hands. The cleaning cloth as it was pulled out, absently wiping it away. The prints left behind in the pools of congealed mauve.
He shoved this memory at Jazz, knowing that his lover was experiencing it now as though it were real-time.
“No!” Jazz's struggles weakened, ventilations so ragged that the heat was building up within his chassis again.
Blue static spilled over Jazz's armor, flicking against Bluestreak's in a way that wasn't as pleasant as it could have been.
“Murderer,” Bluestreak accused and fought down his own emotions, the quailing of his spark. “Failure.”
Plating clanged, but it was the frantic lifting and dropiping of Jazz's armor, torn as he was between offense and defense, the need to protect himself and the need to attack.
More images. Bluestreak didn't cease, didn't slow down, only sped them up, until it was a blur of past and present, of lives taken, of watching sparks extinguish, of empty frames piled up on abandoned battlefields, and the agony of being crushed under a combiner's pede.
A choked cry broke free from Jazz's vocalizer and he spasmed, helm jerking back and nearly knocking Bluestrea in the faceplate. The cry grew louder, in both pitch and volume, and Bluestreak hastily snapped a hand over his lover's mouth as the energy coiled within Jazz snapped. It crashed and rose like a shattered dam, whipping through the room, slamming against Bluestreak who had been prepared for such a thing. Static electricity spilled over Jazz's armor, his spark energy pulsing outward in great, rolling waves. To any ignorant observant, it could have been construed as pleasure.
It wasn't an overload, not really. Bluestreak likened it more to a release, a cathartic outpouring of all the agony and strain that Jazz labored under. There was no pleasure involved, but raw pain that had only this as an outlet. Slaggin' Special Ops programming. Bluestreak hated it and its protocols, designed to lock away pesky emotions like guilt and shame, leaving only the need to obey prime directives no matter the cost.
By the Allspark, sometimes Bluestreak wished this fragged war would end itself. If only to grant his lover some well-earned peace.
Trembling now, Jazz went limp in his hold, emotions still a heady thrum, charge racing through his circuits. Bluestreak unlatched the cuffs, tossing them aside, and scooped Jazz into his arms. Luckily, it was only a few steps to the berth. Bluestreak was not that much larger than Jazz and the strength in his frame was finite.
He laid Jazz upon the berth and then crawled in beside him, unsurprised when Jazz's visor flickered and the saboteur reached out.
“Blue,” Jazz murmured, energy field rising in waves that grew steady with each passing moment, a request and a promise all rolled into one.
“Feel better?” he asked, pressing a kiss to Jazz's arm, letting his mouth work upward, charge crawling lazily across Jazz's plating and tickling Bluestreak's lips.
Jazz's laughter, usually a soft purr, was rough with static. “Mmm. I still want you.”
“That can be arranged.”
Pleasure pulsed sluggishly across their connection, raw as it still was, a soothing balm to the lingering pain.
This, too, wasn't unusual. Sometimes, reminders of the good were a needed distraction. Though there were also times that contact afterward only made things worse.
Bluestreak mouthed the inner seam of Jazz's elbow and continued his leisurely exploration, straddling Jazz so that their plating barely touched. The space between them was enough for the static to leap back and forth between their frames in little pleasing zips of sensation. Bluestreak's engine rumbled, vibrations rattling the berth and by proxy, Jazz, who arched beneath him, hands hooking into Bluestreak's chassis tenaciously.
“Ahhh, more,” Jazz pleaded without reservation, languidly shifting upon the berth, armor lifted wide in invitation now rather than necessity.
“Always,” Bluestreak murmured against the sensitive circuits buried within Jazz's shoulder, his lips moving inward, to Jazz's collar, glossa nudging heated cables. “Want you. Need you.” His spark flared, energies seeking to wrap around his lover, to comfort this time rather than stress.
Moans spilled from Jazz's vocalizer. His fingers curled tightly on Bluestreak's armor as he arched, their frames coming into delicious contact. Metal excoriated against metal, vibrations rattling through them, burrs of static licking up in the wake.
“Mmm. Yours.” Jazz's ventliations increased in pace and he cried out when Bluestreak's glossa found a weld-scar, recent and still tasting of melted steel.
Bluestreak traced the length of it, knowing from Jazz's memories just how it had been acquired, the bitter tang of nanites stark on his chemoreceptors. It was like tasting Jazz's pain and something within him revved at the thought.
“Mine,” he growled in agreement and again, his spark throbbed as though eager to part his chestplates, claim with his spark as well as his energy field.
Said energies unfurled, like broad, sweeping wings mimicking his sensory panels and enveloped Jazz beneath him. It was as tangible as it was intangible and Bluestreak could feel, through their connection, the way it tingled against Jazz's plating, putting pressure and sensation on the sensors beneath his armor.
This time, too, Jazz reciprocated. He did not fight, releasing his own energy field in a blast of pure desire, fields syncing almost immediately. The difference between now and recent past was blatant and startling, the shift from pain to pleasure only heightening the desire.
Bluestreak felt overload creeping up on him and a tremble wracked his wings. He nudged his mouthplate beneath Jazz's chin, denta seeking the delicate neck cables, glossa leaving a slick path for the static charge building between them to follow.
Jazz's engine revved, louder and louder. Bluestreak's questing hand found a familiar transformation seam, tracing it over and over, to the vocal delight of his lover. Bluestreak purred in delight, enjoying the sounds of pleasure Jazz made, preferring them always to the raw dissonance of pain.
Overload struck like lightning, setting fire to Bluestreak's circuits, his doorwings flaring wide. He moaned, shuddering against Jazz, energy leaping from his frame and into his lover's, exciting Jazz's sensory net as well. Bluestreak plunged a hand beneath Jazz's plating, sharing the electric charge, spark throbbing as Jazz cried out, body writhing in his own overload.
This was pleasure.
Bluestreak's vision fritzed and he ex-vented softly, withdrawing his fingers from Jazz's endostructure. His limbs felt wobbly and it was a simple matter to lower himself down, resting upon Jazz's lower frame, though careful to distribute his weight.
He could feel Jazz's engines purring with satisfaction, and when Jazz's arms wrapped around him, resting against his dorsal plating, Bluestreak relaxed as well. Tiny tremors of pleasure still zipped through his system and he luxuriated in the sensation, letting the quiet moment fill the room around them.
Bluestreak took the opportunity to close off certain protocols, locking away Jazz's memories, especially the classified ones that he had no business knowing with his lack of security clearance.
The feel of those familiar hands stroking his wings was enough to lull Bluestreak toward recharge, but he sensed there was yet something left to do. Jazz was mulling something over, and hesitating as well.
“Blue?”
And there it was.
He laid his helm upon Jazz's chestplate, audials absorbing the steady hum of Jazz's spark beneath. “Hmm?”
“Ya never ask.”
He stroked a hand down Jazz's side and then half-tucked it beneath Jazz's frame. “I don't need to,” Bluestreak answered, doorwings half-heartedly twitching toward Jazz's touch. He wasn't sure if he wanted to cycle up for another overload or not. “You never ask either.”
“Good point.” A soft chuckle trickled through the room. “Ya should though. Ask, I mean.”
“Does it matter?” He shifted his helm, enough that he could meet Jazz's optics. “I do it because I love you. Because you need it and I accept that and I can do it for you.”
Contemplation flickered over Jazz's face. “But ya don't enjoy it.”
Bluestreak paused, considering. Did he overload when breaking Jazz? No, he did not. Why? He did not conceive the act as arousing or stimulating. It was an unfortunate necessity and he did pride himself on the trust Jazz gave him.
But he suspected that wasn't precisely what Jazz was asking.
“It's not an act meant to be enjoyed.”
Jazz dragged his lipplate into his mouth, denta gnawing on it for a moment, the uncertainty clear in his energy field. “Blue...”
“You need it, Jazz,” he said, this time more firmly, leaving no room for his lover to misinterpret. “And that's what matters to me. At least, with you, it means something.”
Datapads of implications rested in Bluestreak's words, but he did not care to elaborate. That past was offline and burned, buried in the rubble that is Praxus and ashes to the mech Bluestreak used to be.
Jazz released a long, slow ventilation. “The others wouldn't understand.”
“No. They need me to be innocent. Pure-sparked.” Bluestreak sighed, though truthfully, he was not irritated by this. “It gives them something to protect.”
Jazz's fingers dragged up the planes of his doorwing before resting, a warm, familiar weight. “And what do you need?”
Bluestreak smiled, spark fluttering within its casing. “Everything I have.” He laid his helm down once again, offlining his optics to count the pulses of Jazz's spark. “And some recharge. You put up a fight, frag it.”
Jazz's laughter resonated within his chassis. “Can't be helped. It's in my nature.” His vocals turned warm and enticing. “Thanks, Blue. I mean it.”
“I know you do.” Bluestreak reached up, lazily flicking Jazz's sensory horn. “Now recharge. I'll pop out those dents before your shift.”
“Yes, sir.”
Smile flickering across his lips, Bluestreak prepared to cycle down into recharge, counting the cadence of Jazz's ventilations to ensure that his lover was also preparing to rest. He would need a serious defrag to be certain that the session took.
He waited until Jazz cycled into recharge first. Only then did he allow himself to rest as well, embracing the one mech he would give anything for, including his most carefully guarded secret.
***
a/n: Feedback is welcome and appreciated. This fic was a bit experimental as I haven't written anything quite like this before so feedback is always helpful. And also, this story really wanted to grow wings. Bluestreak built up this nice little backstory in the back of my head and kept trying to push me into writing more, more, more. I'll see what the muses give me. :)
Anyway. Enjoy! Oh and this is very much NSFW. Title and cut text borrowed from the song that inspired the piece, Undisclosed Desires, by Muse.
Title: Undisclosed Desires
Universe: G1
Rating: NC-17
Pairings/Characters: Bluestreak/Jazz, Smokescreen, Blaster, Hound
Warnings: dom/sub relationship, pnp and tactile, painplay, breathplay, bondage, dirty talk, some aspects of dubcon
Description: What Jazz needed, Bluestreak provided.
For tf-rare-pairings prompt Jazz/Bluestreak, this is how you play this game.
“Do you have a six?”
“Nope. Go Fish.”
Bluestreak cycled his optics down, staring at his fellow Praxian. “Y'know, Smokey. I'm starting to think that you're lying to us.”
Smokescreen laughed, lounging back in his chair, the perfect picture of innocence and poise. “I wouldn't do that, Blue. Not over a card game.”
“Which means,” Hound said with warm humor. “That he lies for other reasons.” He shuffled his cards, peering at them intently. “Gotta King?”
“Nope,” Smokescreen replied and flashed all of them a bright grin. “Go Fish.”
“Lying,” Bluestreak sang, subvocally, but he pulled a card of his own before Hound did so as well.
“Seriously, my mechs?” Another voice chimed in from behind Bluestreak, prompting everyone to lift their optics, and Bluestreak's doorwings to twitch. “Go Fish? Wasn't there anything else to do?”
“Jazz!” Blaster lifted a hand in greeting. “When did you get back?”
A heavy weight settled against Bluestreak's back, Jazz positioning himself between the flat planes of his doorwings and inviting himself into Bluestreak's personal space. The warm buzz of his energy field tingled over Bluestreak's senses, and he let heat flood his faceplates, shifting beneath the weight of the special ops mech.
“Just now. Had to stop in and see my mechs before I submitted myself to Hatchet's vengeance,” Jazz replied, laying his chin on the top of Bluestreak's helm. “Found me a comfortable chair it looks like, too.”
Laughter rung around the table.
Bluestreak's doorwings twitched again.
“Your chair's going to blow a fuse if you don't give him some breathing room,” Smokescreen observed with a sly look. “Ventilate, Blue. Seriously. You'll overheat.”
He huffed, idly shuffling his cards. “No, I won't,” Bluestreak replied, tossing Smokescreen an annoyed look, though he could feel his faceplate darken as Jazz reached out, dragging his fingers over the top-most edge of Bluestreak's right doorwing.
Tonight? the gesture asked. No, pleaded.
Not that any of their friends would know that.
Hound shook his helm and nudged Blaster with an elbow. “Your turn.”
Jazz chuckled. “Come on, my mechs. There has to be something better to do than this. I've never seen a more pathetic and bored group of soldiers.”
Smokescreen smirked, pushing back in his chair and patting one knee pointedly. “Could spice things up, if you want. I don't think little Blue is as amenable to your charms.”
“He could be, if he wanted,” Jazz all but purred with another slow slide of his fingers, this time down the interior of the doorwing.
No one else could see it, but Bluestreak could feel it. The subtle tremble in those fingers, the ragged control on the edge of Jazz's energy field. The minute shudder of the plating pressed against his backplate.
His right doorwing twitched again, this time with purpose, pushing away from Jazz's fingers rather than toward it. Another silent gesture. Acceptance.
Tonight, he agreed.
“If that twitch was anything to go by, I'd say he doesn't,” Smokescreen said, humor making his rich voice sultry.
Bluestreak edged away from Jazz, though everything within him strained to fix, to see to the pain that his lover was under. Not now, he told himself firmly. Not now.
“I'm right here, you know,” he said, giving his fellow Praxian an annoyed look. “I can hear you. I'm not deaf. Jazz is just teasing. He does that a lot. I'm not a kid, you know.”
A small flick against his doorwing. A warning. And then Jazz drew away, reluctance pulsing in his energy field so quickly that only Bluestreak could catch the emotion.
“Yeah, we know,” Jazz said, his tones warm and teasing, and maybe only Bluestreak could hear their undercurrent, the slight clip, the wavery warble at the end. “Sorry, Blue.”
Or not.
Blaster had this look on his faceplate. His helm tilted to the side, his optics sharp and surveying, darting as they were, between Jazz and Bluestreak.
“Not offended,” Bluestreak huffed, dropping his gaze from the curious communications officer and hastily reshuffled his cards. “Whose turn is it anyway? Aren't we supposed to be playing a game here?”
“Classic change of subject,” Smokescreen said in a loud whisper, nudging Hound with his shoulder as he straightened in his chair, losing the lazy slouch. “It's still Blaster's.”
“Putting on the pressure but I can take the stress.” Blaster rolled his shoulders and his neck, like a human gearing up for a boxing match. “Gimme all your Aces, Smokey. I know ya got the rest. There's always one or two up your sleeve.”
Smokescreen's jaw dropped and he loosed a groan of disappointment. “Frag, Blaster. How do you do that, mech?”
“Skill and talent and startling good looks,” Blaster replied with a smirk, holding a palm out for the aforementioned cards.
Jazz shook his helm at the lot of them. “I'm outta here before ya bore me to recharge with this game. Later.”
A fist bump between himself and Blaster and then Jazz vanished out of the rec room, Bluestreak hoped, off to see Ratchet. Though his seemingly cheerful self, Jazz had looked tired and worn around the edges. There was also the light odor of scorched circuits around his frame.
What was it this time, Bluestreak wondered. What had he done in the name of the Autobot cause?
Who had he failed?
A chit pinged off Bluestreak's chevron and he frowned, reaching up to rub the dinged metal. “What was that for?”
“Not paying attention,” Smokescreen chastised, waggling a finger at him. “I asked you a question, little Blue.”
He forced himself to return to the game, giving his friends an embarrassed smile, faceplate flushing again. “Oops. Sorry. Processor wandered. What was the question again?”
Hound chuckled. “Wandered to where, I wonder?” he said, but it was meant to tease as he waggled his cards at Bluestreak. “He wants your Twos.”
Bluestreak barely glanced at his cards, having lost the rhythm of the entire game, and pulled out what Smokescreen wanted. “It just wandered,” he retorted. “Can we change the subject now?” He added a touch of desperation to his vocals, drawing upon the many, many times he'd seen the mechs tease Spike to the point of storming off in an mortified huff.
Laughter flickered around the table. But they did change the subject and the teasing was dropped.
For now.
Several games and a patrol with Tracks later, Bluestreak returned to his quarters, usually shared with Beachcomber but the geologist was currently out exploring some interesting mountains out in Asia. Bluestreak had only been half-listening at the time, absorbing the details regarding how long Beachcomber would be gone and nothing else.
He would be alone for the better part of a month. Bluestreak didn't mind. He actually liked the silence, though none of his fellow Autobots believed him. They worried and it was nice to be worried about, except when it became overbearing and then all Bluestreak wanted was silence.
Worry inspired questions requiring answers and Bluestreak couldn't share the answers. Too much familiarity bred truth and that, again, was something Bluestreak didn't dare hand over. So he kept his secrets and buried them beneath the innocence, the youthful facade, the babble. As long as he was rambling, no one paid too much attention to the actual words and that was the key.
His door opened with a soft whuff of air, and the darkness of his quarters greeted him. Well, dark save for the one lamp Bluestreak knew hadn't been on when he left. He was not alone and well, that wasn't unexpected.
He stepped inside, door shutting behind him, and a tap to the panel locked it. Not that Bluestreak expected someone to barge in on him, but then, it wouldn't be the first time Sideswipe snuck into his quarters for some kind of prank. Oh, Sideswipe could hack the lock, but not quickly and by the time he got through, Bluestreak would have all the warning he needed.
His optics swept through the room, taking in the ordered chaos that resulted from two mechs sharing living space no matter how well the two got along. The shadows by Bluestreak's console shifted, and a small part of him was surprised that said shadows hadn't taken a perch upon the berth.
“Keep it up and we won't have a secret anymore,” Bluestreak said into the darkness, choosing against turning on the overhead lights. The lamp would be enough.
The soft rumble of a high-performance engine purred through the room. “The best secrets're hidden in plain sight.”
He reached up, detaching his cannon and setting it aside for cleaning later, leaving his shoulder feeling too light. “It's your aft on the line, not mine,” Bluestreak said and paused, a smirk curling his lipplate. “Then again, I know how much that excites you.”
A dark chuckle slithered through the room. “Primus, you're a terror.”
“You love me for it.”
“That and other things.” The shadows shifted, the glimmer of a visor reflected in the dim light offered by the lamp. “I need ya, Blue.”
This, also, was expected.
“I thought you might.” Bluestreak approached his desk, and by proxy, the chair, the shadows clarifying into the mech perched backward upon said chair. His arms were braced across the back of it, chin resting on his crossed wrists.
“Tell me, sweetspark. What am I taking this time?” he asked, his vocals soft, hand lifting to cup the dark helm, thumb brushing over the edge of cheek plating.
Jazz's faceplate turned into his palm with a slow, dragging nuzzle, his visor offlining. The shudder that raced through his frame was tangible.
“Ev'rythin'.”
A tall order, but not unusual. Bluestreak's doorwings flickered, Jazz's energy field rising up in slow, spiraling entreaty. Asking without words. Begging, truth be told.
Bluestreak's spark began a careful, throbbing rhythm. His free hand lifted, a single finger hooking in Jazz's collar fairing.
“Limits?”
“Don't need 'em.”
His finger pushed past the rim of the armor, brushing against sensory lines, and buried beneath those, a main energon line. “That's not how we do this, Jazz. Limits?”
Jazz trembled, Bluestreak could think of no better word for it, his control on the perilous edge of breaking. Hands bracing against the chair formed into fists.
“Gotta shift in the afternoon,” Jazz finally forced out, vocalizer crackling. He pressed his helm firmly against Bluestreak's hand. “Can't have any rumors.”
“Nothing that can't self-repair overnight. Understood. Terms?”
Jazz's lips parted, his glossa flicking against Bluestreak's palm, the tension in his frame making his armor rattle. As though he were going to fall apart any moment now and only his tenuous grip on sanity was keeping him together.
“Break me,” he murmured, lips moving against Bluestreak's palm. “Please.”
Energy field rising and falling, blanketing over Jazz, Bluestreak's helm dipped. “Shh,” he replied, fingers soothing over the cables in Jazz's throat before withdrawing. “I've got you.”
Quiet filled his quarters as Bluestreak considered. Pain was not an option, at least not the sort that Jazz really wanted. For that, he would need days for recuperation, time for Jazz to heal by self-repair and whatever Bluestreak could fix on his own. This was time they did not have, and hadn't since the crash-landing here on Earth.
Pain, then, in moderation. Dents could be popped out, paint easily touched up.
To break, however?
Bluestreak's ventilations became slow and even as he considered.
Not all pain was physical. But he would have to be careful. For this type of pain could be the most damaging and the line between suffering and solace could be very thin indeed. Sometimes, the cure could be worse than the condition.
He would have to be observant, more so than usual. In Jazz's current state, he would allow Bluestreak to go too far, purposefully refusing to acknowledge his limits.
Yes, Bluestreak would have to be cautious indeed. He would not, however, fail. Jazz trusted him with this vulnerability, and Bluestreak would continue to prove himself worthy of that trust.
Nodding to himself, Bluestreak onlined his optics. Jazz had not moved, though the tremors racing through his frame remained. He waited, patiently, for Bluestreak to begin. He would have to reward that patience.
Grimly, Bluestreak stroked his fingers over the side of Jazz's helm, feeling the way Jazz pressed into the gentle touch. Acknowledging. Permitting. Submitting.
Bluestreak struck.
It was an open-palmed smack to the side of Jazz's helm, deliberately placed to jar Jazz's sensory horn, with enough force to rock the chair to the side and throw Jazz out of it. The saboteur tumbled, the blow unexpected. He had known something was coming, but Bluestreak had made it a personal goal to never be predictable. It was the only way to ensure that this worked.
Jazz caught himself. He wasn't the third in command of the Autobots for nothing. His helm snapped up, visor blazing, lipplates curled back. His energy field blazed, rippling with indignation, but beneath it, the need and the challenge. The violence was enough to propel him straight from needy submissive into defensive protocols, activating that troublesome saboteur programming, the true root of the issue.
Make me, it said.
Bluestreak flared his doorwings.
Jazz's engine rumbled, anger spiking. “Ya--”
Bluestreak struck again, a backhanded blow that held nothing back. He felt the hard crystal of Jazz's visor splinter against his knuckles, but that was trivial. Jazz had more. What was important was the approaching feeling of helplessness, the lack of vision now that Jazz's visor flickered on and off, rebooting over and over to no avail.
Jazz stumbled, catching himself on one hand, balance askew. His gyros had to be misfiring just as Bluestreak intended.
“Get up,” Bluestreak demanded.
The saboteur snarled again, shaking his helm as if in a vain attempt to clear the unbalance. He crouched, feral.
“Get. Up.”
The order was given. Bluestreak could see the war within, the way Jazz quailed at obeying, but a part of him was involuntary. He shifted as though to rise, hydraulics hissing in the quiet, trained to never back down, fight to the last firing circuit.
He could not be permitted to do. Let the disconnect between the command and the punishment throw him further off-balance.
Bluestreak struck again, force carefully applied, another backhand that finally sent Jazz sprawling. Paint scraped on his knuckles, easily fixed, and a few armor panels dented. All minor. The limits held.
“Worthless pile of slag,” Bluestreak taunted, keeping his vocals low and cold, holding none of their earlier warmth. He couldn't be Bluestreak right now. He was somebody else, and he knew, without having to ask, how Jazz's addled processor was connecting here to then, matching tone to tone and responding accordingly. “You're a waste of my time. I said get up.”
Anger spiked. Servos whine as Jazz forced his frame to obey him, pushing himself to his knees, then his pedes. His visor spat fractured light. Jazz lurched, swinging out with an uncoordinated fist.
Bluestreak easily dodged the blow, snatching Jazz's wrist, fingers clamping around it. His thumb dug in, pushing against thin armor plating, burrowing through bundles of cables, pressing on a sensor nexus buried beneath. Pressure points, he'd once heard Spike describe them as. And quite apt, he thought.
Jazz choked back a scream, dropping to a knee, quailing as pain radiated from his arm outward. He was down, but not out, and Bluestreak knew he'd recover quickly. Special Ops protocols were already working to sever the distraction.
“Pathetic,” Bluestreak sneered, jerking on the wrist. “Your master would be ashamed.”
A half-lit visor attempted to glare, Jazz working his jaw but vocalizer saying nothing.
“Get up.”
Servos shrieked, the gears in Jazz's wrist scraping together as Bluestreak squeezed. Jazz's free hand balled into a fist, those protocols coming through. His plating flexed.
“Get up,” Bluestreak said, again.
Jazz moved, fast as always, hampered by half-vision, pain, and unstable gyros, but still dangerous. Bluestreak was ready.
He shifted to avoid Jazz's attack, twisted the wrist he held, and forced it up behind Jazz's back. He pushed, slamming Jazz facefirst into the wall, trapping the saboteur between the wall and his own bulkier frame. He pulled on Jazz's wrist, straining the servo motors in Jazz's shoulder and prompting an involuntary gasp of pain from his lover. Plating buckled but it was minor, easy enough to be popped out.
Jazz snarled, inarticulate, and jerked an elbow backward but Bluestreak grabbed that arm as well, twisting it behind Jazz and pinning them both in place. Jazz pushed forward, pedes against the floor, trying to ease the pressure on his shoulders. In response, Bluestreak pulled up higher, straining the limits of Jazz's flexibility.
“You're an embarrassment,” he chastised, striking Jazz's defeat home as he shoved a knee between Jazz's legs, further pinning him to the wall.
Jazz vibrated, energy field rife with rage and desperation and pain. It slapped back against Bluestreak, the only weapon he had left, and underneath it all, the spark-deep need to fight before he could let himself surrender.
Their plating scraped together, a whine of metal against metal. Jazz huffed, ventilations strained, more so when Bluestreak pressed against him from behind, blocking off his dorsal vents. Heat emanated from Jazz's frame, dumped into the air, washing against Bluestreak. His own fans sought to kick on, but he pushed that down.
“Your best wasn't good enough, it seems,” Bluestreak said, keeping his voice low and even, taunting perhaps. “Bested by a sniper of all mechs. No wonder the Decepticons are winning.” He transferred Jazz's wrists to one hand and let the other grasp Jazz's hip, fingers groping for the interface port protected by a heavy panel. “Show me.”
“Frag off!” Jazz struggled, but it was half-sparked at best. His ventilations were getting heavier and heavier, strained as they were, the longer Bluestreak trapped him against the wal
He traced the edges of the panel, over and over, detecting fear as an undercurrent to the anger. This was always the hardest part.
“Show me,” Bluestreak repeated, finger catching on the edge of the panel and tugging, not enough to buckle the plating, but to prove a point. He would if he had to. “Open.”
Jazz's systems whined. His mouth opened, drawing in cooling bursts of air from his last resort as his blocked vents were useless. Panic settled in. Bluestreak could feel it, the way Jazz twitched and struggled.
Another push then.
He reached into his subspace, removing a pair of magna-cuffs, slapping them around Jazz's wrists so that he could have both hands free. Jazz made another inarticulate noise at the sound of the cuffs, his struggles beginning anew.
Bluestreak reached around, clapping one hand over Jazz's mouth. The other returned to the hidden port pointedly. He let his energy field unfurl, rising up and crashing down on Jazz, wrapping around him as firmly as Bluestreak's own frame kept the mech confined. If there was one thing that Jazz despised, that he loathed to his very core, it was being trapped. The humans called it claustrophobia and perhaps it was similar enough.
“Show me,” Bluestreak said, voice firmer this time, edging toward a demand. His fingers pressed against Jazz's panel, leaving no room for confusion. He did not want to force it.
Please, he thought, do not make me force you.
Jazz's entire frame shook. Bluestreak could hear the distinct pop-fizzle of blown circuits, and felt the heat pouring from Jazz's plating.
“Now,” Bluestreak demanded.
A low, broken moan spilled from Jazz's vocalizer, his struggles weakening. His energy field flared, the conflict so evident.
Bluestreak steeled himself, sensing the surrender to come, accessing protocols that he usually kept buried. None of the Autobots, save Jazz now, even knew he possessed these. No one knew what he used to be, and Bluestreak intended to keep it that way. He would not speak of them, but he would use them if only to protect Jazz.
The saboteur's plating lifted away from his frame, vulnerability defined, a desperate attempt to cool his overheated circuits. But it did little good and only gave Bluestreak the opening he needed to drag his fingers upward, burying them between the wide gaps in Jazz's armor and press hard on tender sensors.
Jazz whined behind Bluestreak's hand and the sound of his panel clicking open was loud in the silence.
Victory.
Bluestreak dropped his hand from Jazz's face, his lover taking in huge, gulping draws of air from his mouth.
“Good mech,” Bluestreak said, his hand now free to wander to Jazz's panel, digging into the sensitive port for a moment, feeling Jazz attempt to twitch away from him, but having nowhere to go.
“Don't – ah – patronize me,” Jazz said, the last syllables edged toward a growl.
Bluestreak pulled out a cable, clicking it home in Jazz's port, feeling the buffer of a firewall immediately rise up. Jazz was going to make it even more difficult, was he? All right then.
“Don't make this harder than it needs to be,” Bluestreak retorted and leaned forward, chassis pressing into Jazz's dorsal plating, his mouth hovering over Jazz's sensory horn and glossa flicking against it.
Jazz shuddered, energy field fluxing, warbling mid-air.
Bluestreak prodded at the firewalls, feeling them give under the tentative touch. Ah, so it was bravado after all. He pushed harder.
“Blue,” Jazz moaned, vocalizer crackling with repressed emotion. “Don't.”
He waited, pausing to dig deep into Jazz's energy field, sensing the anxiety and the shame, but beneath it all, the desperation. Jazz wanted this as much as he loathed it and Bluestreak would do him no favors by stopping.
“No,” Bluestreak said firmly and gathered up his data-self, throwing all that he had learned over a lifetime at Jazz's firewalls.
They collapsed like a house of cards, crumbling beneath his onslaught, revealing themselves for the pretense they were. An illusion of resistance. He often wondered if there was even an Autobot among them that could withstand the sort of training Bluestreak carried. Ratchet perhaps. Prime and his Matrix.
Jazz sagged, pushing himself against the wall, as though it would provide solace from the intrusion.
The pathways were open to Bluestreak and he knew, from previous times, exactly where to go. He ignored the other tracts, enticing they might be, and headed straight for Jazz's most recently archived memories. These were still close to the surface, the emotional and physical sensations tangible.
Sound and color and sensation bombarded Bluestreak from all directions. The sharp tang of energon. The acrid odor of burnt circuits and seared plating. The startled shriek of a Decepticon taken off guard. The brilliant ball of blue-white fire as it rippled through a hallway. The tacky feel of half-congealed energon, sticky under-pede. The resistance of armor as an energon dagger tore through it, snaring the lines and cables beneath.
And above it all, the sharp-bright bursts of Jazz's emotions. The sense of victory and accomplishment, the grin curving his lips, the pangs of guilt pushed down as quickly as they dared emerge. Shame could not exist in his programming. It wasn't allowed.
“You enjoyed it,” Bluestreak said, his voice barely above a whisper, but it didn't need to be loud to make an impact.
Not when he had the memories to serve as a hammer, bringing them up and refusing to allow Jazz to archive them, slot them away to be forgotten.
Jazz's fingers twitched, brushing against Bluestreak's abdominal array. “No.”
“You did.” He closed his optics, leaning his cheek against Jazz's sensory horn, knowing the vibrations of his energy field would be an ever-present burr against his lover's sensory net. “How many sparks, Jazz?”
Jazz's vocalizer clicked with a failure to engage.
“How. Many?”
“T-twelve.”
Jazz's shoulders hunched, as though he were trying to curl into himself, but the awkward angle of his arms prevented it.
“Your hands. Your bombs.” Bluestreak's denta clenched down on the soft metal of the sensory horns, leaving impressions behind and constricting the delicate circuits beneath. “Your joy.”
“Necessary.”
“That's your excuse,” Bluestreak all but hissed, free hand buried in Jazz's hip circuity, grabbing a hydraulic line and tugging sharply.
Jazz arched against the wall, helm tipping back toward Bluestreak, hips attempting to jerk away and only succeeding in clanging against the wall.
“They were orders,” Jazz near-shouted, fighting now. Himself and Bluestreak both, the painful truth of his own memories, the incisive bursts of Bluestreak's words.
Bluestreak curled a finger around the line, pulling it further, and warnings streaked through Jazz's systems, transferred in a blink through the connection. “Convenient that, these orders that let you kill without reservation.”
A wordless snarl burst from Jazz's vocalizer, his helm pressed to the wall, Bluestreak's lipplates brushing his sensory horn. “Necessary.”
“Liar.”
Bluestreak pulled up another image, energon splashing into the open air, dripping onto Jazz's hands. The cleaning cloth as it was pulled out, absently wiping it away. The prints left behind in the pools of congealed mauve.
He shoved this memory at Jazz, knowing that his lover was experiencing it now as though it were real-time.
“No!” Jazz's struggles weakened, ventilations so ragged that the heat was building up within his chassis again.
Blue static spilled over Jazz's armor, flicking against Bluestreak's in a way that wasn't as pleasant as it could have been.
“Murderer,” Bluestreak accused and fought down his own emotions, the quailing of his spark. “Failure.”
Plating clanged, but it was the frantic lifting and dropiping of Jazz's armor, torn as he was between offense and defense, the need to protect himself and the need to attack.
More images. Bluestreak didn't cease, didn't slow down, only sped them up, until it was a blur of past and present, of lives taken, of watching sparks extinguish, of empty frames piled up on abandoned battlefields, and the agony of being crushed under a combiner's pede.
A choked cry broke free from Jazz's vocalizer and he spasmed, helm jerking back and nearly knocking Bluestrea in the faceplate. The cry grew louder, in both pitch and volume, and Bluestreak hastily snapped a hand over his lover's mouth as the energy coiled within Jazz snapped. It crashed and rose like a shattered dam, whipping through the room, slamming against Bluestreak who had been prepared for such a thing. Static electricity spilled over Jazz's armor, his spark energy pulsing outward in great, rolling waves. To any ignorant observant, it could have been construed as pleasure.
It wasn't an overload, not really. Bluestreak likened it more to a release, a cathartic outpouring of all the agony and strain that Jazz labored under. There was no pleasure involved, but raw pain that had only this as an outlet. Slaggin' Special Ops programming. Bluestreak hated it and its protocols, designed to lock away pesky emotions like guilt and shame, leaving only the need to obey prime directives no matter the cost.
By the Allspark, sometimes Bluestreak wished this fragged war would end itself. If only to grant his lover some well-earned peace.
Trembling now, Jazz went limp in his hold, emotions still a heady thrum, charge racing through his circuits. Bluestreak unlatched the cuffs, tossing them aside, and scooped Jazz into his arms. Luckily, it was only a few steps to the berth. Bluestreak was not that much larger than Jazz and the strength in his frame was finite.
He laid Jazz upon the berth and then crawled in beside him, unsurprised when Jazz's visor flickered and the saboteur reached out.
“Blue,” Jazz murmured, energy field rising in waves that grew steady with each passing moment, a request and a promise all rolled into one.
“Feel better?” he asked, pressing a kiss to Jazz's arm, letting his mouth work upward, charge crawling lazily across Jazz's plating and tickling Bluestreak's lips.
Jazz's laughter, usually a soft purr, was rough with static. “Mmm. I still want you.”
“That can be arranged.”
Pleasure pulsed sluggishly across their connection, raw as it still was, a soothing balm to the lingering pain.
This, too, wasn't unusual. Sometimes, reminders of the good were a needed distraction. Though there were also times that contact afterward only made things worse.
Bluestreak mouthed the inner seam of Jazz's elbow and continued his leisurely exploration, straddling Jazz so that their plating barely touched. The space between them was enough for the static to leap back and forth between their frames in little pleasing zips of sensation. Bluestreak's engine rumbled, vibrations rattling the berth and by proxy, Jazz, who arched beneath him, hands hooking into Bluestreak's chassis tenaciously.
“Ahhh, more,” Jazz pleaded without reservation, languidly shifting upon the berth, armor lifted wide in invitation now rather than necessity.
“Always,” Bluestreak murmured against the sensitive circuits buried within Jazz's shoulder, his lips moving inward, to Jazz's collar, glossa nudging heated cables. “Want you. Need you.” His spark flared, energies seeking to wrap around his lover, to comfort this time rather than stress.
Moans spilled from Jazz's vocalizer. His fingers curled tightly on Bluestreak's armor as he arched, their frames coming into delicious contact. Metal excoriated against metal, vibrations rattling through them, burrs of static licking up in the wake.
“Mmm. Yours.” Jazz's ventliations increased in pace and he cried out when Bluestreak's glossa found a weld-scar, recent and still tasting of melted steel.
Bluestreak traced the length of it, knowing from Jazz's memories just how it had been acquired, the bitter tang of nanites stark on his chemoreceptors. It was like tasting Jazz's pain and something within him revved at the thought.
“Mine,” he growled in agreement and again, his spark throbbed as though eager to part his chestplates, claim with his spark as well as his energy field.
Said energies unfurled, like broad, sweeping wings mimicking his sensory panels and enveloped Jazz beneath him. It was as tangible as it was intangible and Bluestreak could feel, through their connection, the way it tingled against Jazz's plating, putting pressure and sensation on the sensors beneath his armor.
This time, too, Jazz reciprocated. He did not fight, releasing his own energy field in a blast of pure desire, fields syncing almost immediately. The difference between now and recent past was blatant and startling, the shift from pain to pleasure only heightening the desire.
Bluestreak felt overload creeping up on him and a tremble wracked his wings. He nudged his mouthplate beneath Jazz's chin, denta seeking the delicate neck cables, glossa leaving a slick path for the static charge building between them to follow.
Jazz's engine revved, louder and louder. Bluestreak's questing hand found a familiar transformation seam, tracing it over and over, to the vocal delight of his lover. Bluestreak purred in delight, enjoying the sounds of pleasure Jazz made, preferring them always to the raw dissonance of pain.
Overload struck like lightning, setting fire to Bluestreak's circuits, his doorwings flaring wide. He moaned, shuddering against Jazz, energy leaping from his frame and into his lover's, exciting Jazz's sensory net as well. Bluestreak plunged a hand beneath Jazz's plating, sharing the electric charge, spark throbbing as Jazz cried out, body writhing in his own overload.
This was pleasure.
Bluestreak's vision fritzed and he ex-vented softly, withdrawing his fingers from Jazz's endostructure. His limbs felt wobbly and it was a simple matter to lower himself down, resting upon Jazz's lower frame, though careful to distribute his weight.
He could feel Jazz's engines purring with satisfaction, and when Jazz's arms wrapped around him, resting against his dorsal plating, Bluestreak relaxed as well. Tiny tremors of pleasure still zipped through his system and he luxuriated in the sensation, letting the quiet moment fill the room around them.
Bluestreak took the opportunity to close off certain protocols, locking away Jazz's memories, especially the classified ones that he had no business knowing with his lack of security clearance.
The feel of those familiar hands stroking his wings was enough to lull Bluestreak toward recharge, but he sensed there was yet something left to do. Jazz was mulling something over, and hesitating as well.
“Blue?”
And there it was.
He laid his helm upon Jazz's chestplate, audials absorbing the steady hum of Jazz's spark beneath. “Hmm?”
“Ya never ask.”
He stroked a hand down Jazz's side and then half-tucked it beneath Jazz's frame. “I don't need to,” Bluestreak answered, doorwings half-heartedly twitching toward Jazz's touch. He wasn't sure if he wanted to cycle up for another overload or not. “You never ask either.”
“Good point.” A soft chuckle trickled through the room. “Ya should though. Ask, I mean.”
“Does it matter?” He shifted his helm, enough that he could meet Jazz's optics. “I do it because I love you. Because you need it and I accept that and I can do it for you.”
Contemplation flickered over Jazz's face. “But ya don't enjoy it.”
Bluestreak paused, considering. Did he overload when breaking Jazz? No, he did not. Why? He did not conceive the act as arousing or stimulating. It was an unfortunate necessity and he did pride himself on the trust Jazz gave him.
But he suspected that wasn't precisely what Jazz was asking.
“It's not an act meant to be enjoyed.”
Jazz dragged his lipplate into his mouth, denta gnawing on it for a moment, the uncertainty clear in his energy field. “Blue...”
“You need it, Jazz,” he said, this time more firmly, leaving no room for his lover to misinterpret. “And that's what matters to me. At least, with you, it means something.”
Datapads of implications rested in Bluestreak's words, but he did not care to elaborate. That past was offline and burned, buried in the rubble that is Praxus and ashes to the mech Bluestreak used to be.
Jazz released a long, slow ventilation. “The others wouldn't understand.”
“No. They need me to be innocent. Pure-sparked.” Bluestreak sighed, though truthfully, he was not irritated by this. “It gives them something to protect.”
Jazz's fingers dragged up the planes of his doorwing before resting, a warm, familiar weight. “And what do you need?”
Bluestreak smiled, spark fluttering within its casing. “Everything I have.” He laid his helm down once again, offlining his optics to count the pulses of Jazz's spark. “And some recharge. You put up a fight, frag it.”
Jazz's laughter resonated within his chassis. “Can't be helped. It's in my nature.” His vocals turned warm and enticing. “Thanks, Blue. I mean it.”
“I know you do.” Bluestreak reached up, lazily flicking Jazz's sensory horn. “Now recharge. I'll pop out those dents before your shift.”
“Yes, sir.”
Smile flickering across his lips, Bluestreak prepared to cycle down into recharge, counting the cadence of Jazz's ventilations to ensure that his lover was also preparing to rest. He would need a serious defrag to be certain that the session took.
He waited until Jazz cycled into recharge first. Only then did he allow himself to rest as well, embracing the one mech he would give anything for, including his most carefully guarded secret.
a/n: Feedback is welcome and appreciated. This fic was a bit experimental as I haven't written anything quite like this before so feedback is always helpful. And also, this story really wanted to grow wings. Bluestreak built up this nice little backstory in the back of my head and kept trying to push me into writing more, more, more. I'll see what the muses give me. :)
