[G1] Runaway
Jan. 30th, 2013 11:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: So because I have no restraint when it comes to Blue/Jazz prompts... here's a PWP! It's definitely NSFW.
Title: Runaway
Universe: G1
Characters: Bluestreak/Jazz, others in passing
Rating: M
Warning: sticky, light restraint, dirty talk, dom/sub undertones
Description: Bluestreak likes the chase, Jazz likes to get caught.
For tf-rare-pairings, Jazz/Bluestreak, spinning my wheels
“They're at it again.”
Jazz overheard the muttered comment as he sped past a cluster of Autobots in the hallway. He wasn't sure who had made the statement, would probably analyze the audio later, figure out who had spoken with such a mixture of envy and annoyance.
Right now, however, that mech didn't matter.
With a grin thrumming through his spark, Jazz revved his engine, ground his tires against the floor of the Ark and put metal to the pedal. Arousal was already pulsing an eager, heated charge across his circuits.
He wasn't the twins. He wasn't a Lamborghini, but the need for speed, the sensation of miles being devoured by his tires, the heated racing of his engine, it was intoxicating.
More than that, though, was the knowledge that he was being chased. That mere mechanometers behind him, Bluestreak rode his aft, engine gunning with equal fervor, energy field a hungry whirl that preceded him.
Jazz threw a laugh across their private comm, daring Bluestreak to catch him, daring the gunner to prove a point.
Bluestreak's response was to rev his engine harder, leaving tread marks on the floor that Prowl would have them both scrubbing later.
Jazz couldn't be pressed to care.
He laughed into the wind, screeching around a corner and narrowly avoiding a collision with Inferno. Jazz tossed an apology in his wake and then focused on the wide maw of the Ark just ahead of him. Freedom was there, open sky and open air and open roads and Bluestreak was still behind him.
A ping flicked through Jazz's systems – Prowl.
He ignored it. Prowl could yell at him later, threaten brig-time, the whole nine yards. For now, Jazz was busy. He earned this down time, frag it. And he was going to take it.
Jazz shot out of the Ark, into unrelenting sunlight and a bright, spring day. He pelted past a startled Smokescreen and an amused Hound, tires kicking up dust in his wake.
Behind him, Bluestreak honked in greeting to the two Autobots and continued his pursuit. Prowl had probably tried hailing him as well. Jazz was honestly surprised that Bluestreak hadn't so much as faltered or hesitated, despite his well-known admiration for the lieutenant. Baby Blue was growing up after all.
Amusement warring with arousal, Jazz kicked his speed up a notch, slammed into the highest gear and shot off into the afternoon. Sensors were wide and alert, scanning for possible Decepticons or wayward humans, but the roads were clear, the skies empty, and there was nothing but himself, miles of pavement, and Bluestreak on his tail.
Behind him, Blue's engine roared into overdrive. Jazz risked a glance from a rear sensor, unsurprised that the gunner was catching up to him. Jazz had the talent when it came to maneuvering, but in a flat-out race, Bluestreak always had him beat.
Well, half the play was in being caught.
Jazz jerked off the main highway, swerving onto a side road in a split-second decision, tires skidding through loose gravel and dirt. A cloud of dust choked the air, but it didn't slow Bluestreak down in the slightest.
Engine roaring, warnings starting to crop up, Jazz pushed himself that much further. Through the trees, he spotted a smaller road jutting off, though he could hardly call the narrow stretch of dirt a road. Perfect.
Flashing his rear lights tauntingly, Jazz spun the wheel and took the turn, nearly losing it when his tires spun on the loose dirt. He caught himself however, and shot off down the tiny road, trees closing in on either side.
He half-expected to lose Bluestreak in the hairpin turn, but no, Bluestreak hit the brakes, swinging through the dirt to follow. Less skilled, losing some speed in the process, but no less determined.
Persistent brat. Jazz loved that about him honestly.
Joy and need both shimmering in his energy field, Jazz burst out of his alt-mode, tumbling helm over pedes in a graceful roll, and whirling to face his pursuer. Grass and dirt churned beneath his pedes, the open glade in the trees just large enough to conceal two Autobots of their size from prying optics.
As it had so many times before.
Bluestreak's engines revved, his shift to root-mode less acrobatic but not lacking in skill. Optics bright and eager, he threw himself at Jazz with a fierce tackle he had to have learned from Sideswipe or Sunstreaker. Probably the latter.
Arms closing around his mid-section, Jazz shifted his weight, spinning Bluestreak around, trying to maintain the upper hand. But Bluestreak dug his pedes into the dirt, flicked out his doorwings to adjust his balance. His servos dug in, pushed under the armor plating at Jazz's back, skipping across the heated workings of his substructure.
Jazz shouted wordlessly, one pede turning beneath him awkwardly. His stance destabilized, he tilted, and Jazz let the inevitable fall crash over him. Bluestreak landed on top with a jarring thud but Jazz wasted no time, bucking his frame, sending Bluestreak sailing over his helm with an undignified clatter.
Jazz rolled to servos and pedes, pushing down the hum of his battle systems, replacing them with training subroutines. He grinned, visor flashing, as Bluestreak flipped back to his pedes, undaunted by the grass and dirt now streaking his frame.
They regarded each other over the span separating them, energy fields buzzing and whipping through the small clearing.
Jazz smirked, one digit crooking in a come-hither gesture. “Come and get it,” he purred, vocals pitched enticingly.
A chuckle spilled from his mate's vocalizer, but he opted for action and not words, springing at Jazz with speed that few on the Ark know him capable of obtaining. Yes, he'd definitely been indulging in some pitfighting lessons from the twins.
Jazz darted to the side, avoiding the initial rush, but Bluestreak turned at the last minute, servo lashing out and snatching at his wrist. Using those Pit-spawned doorwings to adjust his balance, Bluestreak jerked hard, yanking Jazz back.
He spat a curse, lurching on his pedes, shifting his weight to regain his equilibrium. Bluestreak dug digits into the complicated mechanisms of his wrist, sending a surge of pain crackling up Jazz's arm. Frag the mech was learning!
Bluestreak twisted, second servo grasping at Jazz's arm, giving him another firm pull. Jazz could have recovered, but not without causing pain to his mate. Possibly even dismemberment and that was pretty far from the intended outcome right now.
He stumbled and fell backward, aft hitting the damp grass first before the rest of him followed suit. A whoosh of air escaped his vents and seconds later, Bluestreak leapt on top of him, digits locked around Jazz's wrists, slamming them to the ground.
Jazz put forth a tentative struggle, wriggling beneath his mate, but arousal was making it difficult to raise a serious effort. He wanted to be pinned, wanted to be in this exact position, made three times as better when Bluestreak nudged his legs apart and settled between them.
“You always make me chase you,” Bluestreak huffed, digits squeezing Jazz's wrists as he leaned over the captive saboteur.
Jazz's grin widened. “Half the fun is in the challenge.” He bucked upward, enjoying the buzzing slide of metal against metal as it resonated through his frame. “I like making you work for it.”
“That's because you're a tease,” Bluestreak retorted with a roll of his optics.
He shifted control of Jazz's wrists to one servo and bent his helm, mouth aiming at Jazz's throat and nuzzling the thin, sensitive plating. His free servo dragged down to Jazz's hip, curling digits around it and holding him in place for a nice, slow grind.
Jazz groaned, arching up into the embrace, both interface panels retracting with audible noises and eager anticipation.
“And you're a slut, too,” Bluestreak teased, glossa flicking out over Jazz's neck cables.
“Ooo. Human slurs and everything.”
“Thought I'd try something new.”
Denta grazed over Jazz's throat, a teasing slide, before Bluestreak bit down, just enough pressure to sting, dent, but not enough to cause permanent harm.
A throaty sound worked its way free of Jazz's vocalizer, the arousal pulsing in his spark, which felt overlarge for his frame. “Blue!”
“You like that?” Bluestreak's energy field rippled over his, warm with desire and amusement.
“You know I do.” His servos drew into fists, though he didn't try to break Bluestreak's hold. That would end the game far too early. “Gonna let me go so I can touch you, too?”
“Nah, I like you like this.” Bluestreak's hips ground down again, the heat of his panel tangibly evident, but his spike remained concealed. “At my mercy. Pinned beneath me. Begging for it with everything but words. I like words, Jazz.”
He laughed, lifting his legs and bracketing Bluestreak's hips, inner thigh plating rubbing against Bluestreak's armor. “Know you do. Use 'em all the time.”
“Don't pretend to hate it,” Bluestreak purred, squeezing Jazz's wrists again, grinding the delicate components together with just an edge of pain to spice things up.
Charge leapt out from under Jazz's plating, which had already lifted wide to ventilate the heat coursing across his lines. “Now who's the fragging tease?” he demanded as a bead of lubricant slipped from his valve, coating Bluestreak's spike covering. “C'mon, Blue. Spike me already!”
The gunner's servo shifted, abandoning his grip on Jazz's hip to slide between his legs, one digit tracing the outline of his valve. “You're so wet,” Bluestreak observed, still with that same teasing tone. “How long have you been holding it in like this? All day? You been thinking about me all day?”
Jazz rocked his pelvis down, trying to encourage more, a groan echoing from deep within his chassis.
“Hmm. That sounds like a yes to me.” Bluestreak's digit continued its maddening touches, circling over and over the ring of outer sensors. “Been thinking about my spike? Want to feel it? Taste it?”
“Primus!” Jazz's engine revved, another spurt of lubricant oozing out of his valve. Bluestreak's devious side never ceased to surprise him.
A soft chuckle spilled from Bluestreak's vocalizer, his ex-vents ghosting over Jazz's clavicular brace. “I don't hear any begging, Jazz.”
His thighs tightened on Bluestreak's hips and his wrists tugged in a token attempt at breaking free. The static crackling beneath his armor clawed its way free, dancing over his plating in bright bursts of electric blue.
“Spike me,” Jazz demanded, his hips circling in time to the slow, steady motions of Bluestreak's finger.
“That sounded more like an order,” Bluestreak chastised though there was little anger in his tone. “You're forgetting who's in charge here.” His digit stopped moving, resting on the sensor node at the top of Jazz's valve entrance.
The barely-there pressure made Jazz arch up, his pedes slamming against the ground, trying to force contact. Bluestreak had already read his intentions, however, and smoothly slid back a few precious inches.
Jazz's engines revved with frustration. “Please!”
“That's better,” Bluestreak purred and leaned back down again, glossa flicking over the Autobot sigil stamped on his chestplate.
The sound of Bluestreak's panel retracting was a welcome click over the noise of Jazz's ventilations. His spike extended, a spike that Jazz knew was whorled with nubs specially designed to bring pleasure to eager valves. His own clenched with anticipation, memory banks providing him with ample past experience to draw from.
He twitched his hips invitingly. “Please, Blue.”
That hot mouth traced a path upward, over the span of his chestplate, across his neck cables, along the underside of his chin where a light nip announced him. “Keep going,” Bluestreak murmured, the head of his spike nudging the rim of Jazz's valve but going no further.
“Fragging sadist is what you are!” Jazz gritted out, wriggling impatiently. “Please, Blue. Please spike me. Please stop torturing me, slag it!”
Bluestreak nipped at his lower lip. “All right, all right,” he said, free servo wandering back to Jazz's hip. “You don't have to beg.”
A slew of curses burst from Jazz's vocalizer but they fell away in a crackle of static when Bluestreak finally pushed into him with one, sharp thrust.
“Yesss,” Jazz hissed and bucked upward, Bluestreak sinking fully inside of him, igniting every untouched sensor.
Electrical fire spilled from Jazz's plating, jumping ship to dance over Bluestreak's armor as well, teasing at the wires beneath.
Bluestreak's mouth captured his, glossa plunging inside with intent to claim. His servo grasped Jazz's left thigh, hiking his hips upward, so that Bluestreak could thrust more deeply. Jazz slid inches against the grass, feeling dirt and vegetation grind into the seams of his plating. Ratchet was going to froth at the mouth.
Worth it, though. So worth it.
Jazz's valve clenched down, heat pulsing through him. His helm threw back, visor offlining, as pleasure pulsed in his spark.
Bluestreak set up a driving rhythm, angling his thrusts to rake across eager sensors. Jazz moaned a staticky sound, fingers curling into fists, thighs tightening around Bluestreak's hips.
The heat was already building inside of him, overload threatening to spill over him. The race, the scuffle, Blue's energy field prickling over him with relentless desire... it was too much.
“I can feel how close you are,” Bluestreak said, vocals tuned low and seductive, with that rolling purr that always seemed to vibrate perfectly across Jazz's chassis. “You're so tight around me. Hot and wet.” He rolled his helm, vocalizing right into Jazz's audial. “I want to feel you overload, feel you clench down on me. You gonna give it to me?”
Jazz whined, frame writhing beneath Bluestreak, wishing he could touch and knowing far better than to try and wrench his wrists free.
“I think you are,” Bluestreak said, thrusting into Jazz and grinding his hips in tiny circles, spike stirring in Jazz's valve. “I think you're going to overload. Squeeze my spike so tight, let me feel every inch of your valve.”
Jazz's wrists jerked up before he could stop himself and Bluestreak slammed them back down with more strength than anyone would give the gunner credit. His weight blanketed Jazz, keeping him pinned, a delicious simulation of being bound and dominated.
“B-Blue...”
“That's it,” Bluestreak purred. “Call my designation. Do it, Jazz. Overload for me.”
He sucked his lipplate into his mouth, pulling in a desperate ventilation, pedes kicking against the back of Bluestreak's thighs.
“Come on, Jazz,” Bluestreak said. “Do it.” His glossa flicked against Jazz's audial, charge crackling between them.
Overload cracked through him like a whip, roaring from his vocalizer and clenching down his valve. Heat flooded over him, static crackling in rolling waves of bright blue.
Jazz's backstrut curved away from the ground, Bluestreak's designation echoing from his vocalizer in a spiraling cry.
Jazz sank back against the ground, vents working furiously, valve cycling on Bluestreak's spike. His mate was still pressurized, patiently enjoying the oscillations of Jazz's valve.
“That's one,” Bluestreak purred, dragging his mouth back to Jazz's, ex-vents ghosting over his lips.
He began to roll his hips again, pushing in and out of Jazz's valve with gentle thrusts, building a slow charge.
“Now it's my turn.”
Jazz turned his helm, nuzzling his faceplate against Bluestreak's. “Ya drive me crazy, Blue.”
“The feeling's mutual.” Affection purred in Bluestreak's energy field, flavored by the surges of intense desire. “So let's see how many more I can get from you before Prowl starts pinging us with reprimands.”
Jazz revved his engine in approval.
***
a/n: That prompt grabbed hold of my smutty muses and wouldn't let go. They said, hey, we haven't done a PWP with Blue/Jazz yet. And I said, well, let's get to it. And then they said, and hey, for the sake of shaking things up, let's make it sticky. And I said, I could get down with that.
And thus are the origins of this fic. :)
Feedback is love. Comments on grammar are fine. I self-betaed so point out any mistakes if you see them.
Still got some more quick 'n dirty RatchxTwins smut on the queue. And if I ever get this monster of a Hot RodxTracks done, it'll be a miracle. February is for War Without End! (maybe). We'll see how it goes.
Title: Runaway
Universe: G1
Characters: Bluestreak/Jazz, others in passing
Rating: M
Warning: sticky, light restraint, dirty talk, dom/sub undertones
Description: Bluestreak likes the chase, Jazz likes to get caught.
For tf-rare-pairings, Jazz/Bluestreak, spinning my wheels
“They're at it again.”
Jazz overheard the muttered comment as he sped past a cluster of Autobots in the hallway. He wasn't sure who had made the statement, would probably analyze the audio later, figure out who had spoken with such a mixture of envy and annoyance.
Right now, however, that mech didn't matter.
With a grin thrumming through his spark, Jazz revved his engine, ground his tires against the floor of the Ark and put metal to the pedal. Arousal was already pulsing an eager, heated charge across his circuits.
He wasn't the twins. He wasn't a Lamborghini, but the need for speed, the sensation of miles being devoured by his tires, the heated racing of his engine, it was intoxicating.
More than that, though, was the knowledge that he was being chased. That mere mechanometers behind him, Bluestreak rode his aft, engine gunning with equal fervor, energy field a hungry whirl that preceded him.
Jazz threw a laugh across their private comm, daring Bluestreak to catch him, daring the gunner to prove a point.
Bluestreak's response was to rev his engine harder, leaving tread marks on the floor that Prowl would have them both scrubbing later.
Jazz couldn't be pressed to care.
He laughed into the wind, screeching around a corner and narrowly avoiding a collision with Inferno. Jazz tossed an apology in his wake and then focused on the wide maw of the Ark just ahead of him. Freedom was there, open sky and open air and open roads and Bluestreak was still behind him.
A ping flicked through Jazz's systems – Prowl.
He ignored it. Prowl could yell at him later, threaten brig-time, the whole nine yards. For now, Jazz was busy. He earned this down time, frag it. And he was going to take it.
Jazz shot out of the Ark, into unrelenting sunlight and a bright, spring day. He pelted past a startled Smokescreen and an amused Hound, tires kicking up dust in his wake.
Behind him, Bluestreak honked in greeting to the two Autobots and continued his pursuit. Prowl had probably tried hailing him as well. Jazz was honestly surprised that Bluestreak hadn't so much as faltered or hesitated, despite his well-known admiration for the lieutenant. Baby Blue was growing up after all.
Amusement warring with arousal, Jazz kicked his speed up a notch, slammed into the highest gear and shot off into the afternoon. Sensors were wide and alert, scanning for possible Decepticons or wayward humans, but the roads were clear, the skies empty, and there was nothing but himself, miles of pavement, and Bluestreak on his tail.
Behind him, Blue's engine roared into overdrive. Jazz risked a glance from a rear sensor, unsurprised that the gunner was catching up to him. Jazz had the talent when it came to maneuvering, but in a flat-out race, Bluestreak always had him beat.
Well, half the play was in being caught.
Jazz jerked off the main highway, swerving onto a side road in a split-second decision, tires skidding through loose gravel and dirt. A cloud of dust choked the air, but it didn't slow Bluestreak down in the slightest.
Engine roaring, warnings starting to crop up, Jazz pushed himself that much further. Through the trees, he spotted a smaller road jutting off, though he could hardly call the narrow stretch of dirt a road. Perfect.
Flashing his rear lights tauntingly, Jazz spun the wheel and took the turn, nearly losing it when his tires spun on the loose dirt. He caught himself however, and shot off down the tiny road, trees closing in on either side.
He half-expected to lose Bluestreak in the hairpin turn, but no, Bluestreak hit the brakes, swinging through the dirt to follow. Less skilled, losing some speed in the process, but no less determined.
Persistent brat. Jazz loved that about him honestly.
Joy and need both shimmering in his energy field, Jazz burst out of his alt-mode, tumbling helm over pedes in a graceful roll, and whirling to face his pursuer. Grass and dirt churned beneath his pedes, the open glade in the trees just large enough to conceal two Autobots of their size from prying optics.
As it had so many times before.
Bluestreak's engines revved, his shift to root-mode less acrobatic but not lacking in skill. Optics bright and eager, he threw himself at Jazz with a fierce tackle he had to have learned from Sideswipe or Sunstreaker. Probably the latter.
Arms closing around his mid-section, Jazz shifted his weight, spinning Bluestreak around, trying to maintain the upper hand. But Bluestreak dug his pedes into the dirt, flicked out his doorwings to adjust his balance. His servos dug in, pushed under the armor plating at Jazz's back, skipping across the heated workings of his substructure.
Jazz shouted wordlessly, one pede turning beneath him awkwardly. His stance destabilized, he tilted, and Jazz let the inevitable fall crash over him. Bluestreak landed on top with a jarring thud but Jazz wasted no time, bucking his frame, sending Bluestreak sailing over his helm with an undignified clatter.
Jazz rolled to servos and pedes, pushing down the hum of his battle systems, replacing them with training subroutines. He grinned, visor flashing, as Bluestreak flipped back to his pedes, undaunted by the grass and dirt now streaking his frame.
They regarded each other over the span separating them, energy fields buzzing and whipping through the small clearing.
Jazz smirked, one digit crooking in a come-hither gesture. “Come and get it,” he purred, vocals pitched enticingly.
A chuckle spilled from his mate's vocalizer, but he opted for action and not words, springing at Jazz with speed that few on the Ark know him capable of obtaining. Yes, he'd definitely been indulging in some pitfighting lessons from the twins.
Jazz darted to the side, avoiding the initial rush, but Bluestreak turned at the last minute, servo lashing out and snatching at his wrist. Using those Pit-spawned doorwings to adjust his balance, Bluestreak jerked hard, yanking Jazz back.
He spat a curse, lurching on his pedes, shifting his weight to regain his equilibrium. Bluestreak dug digits into the complicated mechanisms of his wrist, sending a surge of pain crackling up Jazz's arm. Frag the mech was learning!
Bluestreak twisted, second servo grasping at Jazz's arm, giving him another firm pull. Jazz could have recovered, but not without causing pain to his mate. Possibly even dismemberment and that was pretty far from the intended outcome right now.
He stumbled and fell backward, aft hitting the damp grass first before the rest of him followed suit. A whoosh of air escaped his vents and seconds later, Bluestreak leapt on top of him, digits locked around Jazz's wrists, slamming them to the ground.
Jazz put forth a tentative struggle, wriggling beneath his mate, but arousal was making it difficult to raise a serious effort. He wanted to be pinned, wanted to be in this exact position, made three times as better when Bluestreak nudged his legs apart and settled between them.
“You always make me chase you,” Bluestreak huffed, digits squeezing Jazz's wrists as he leaned over the captive saboteur.
Jazz's grin widened. “Half the fun is in the challenge.” He bucked upward, enjoying the buzzing slide of metal against metal as it resonated through his frame. “I like making you work for it.”
“That's because you're a tease,” Bluestreak retorted with a roll of his optics.
He shifted control of Jazz's wrists to one servo and bent his helm, mouth aiming at Jazz's throat and nuzzling the thin, sensitive plating. His free servo dragged down to Jazz's hip, curling digits around it and holding him in place for a nice, slow grind.
Jazz groaned, arching up into the embrace, both interface panels retracting with audible noises and eager anticipation.
“And you're a slut, too,” Bluestreak teased, glossa flicking out over Jazz's neck cables.
“Ooo. Human slurs and everything.”
“Thought I'd try something new.”
Denta grazed over Jazz's throat, a teasing slide, before Bluestreak bit down, just enough pressure to sting, dent, but not enough to cause permanent harm.
A throaty sound worked its way free of Jazz's vocalizer, the arousal pulsing in his spark, which felt overlarge for his frame. “Blue!”
“You like that?” Bluestreak's energy field rippled over his, warm with desire and amusement.
“You know I do.” His servos drew into fists, though he didn't try to break Bluestreak's hold. That would end the game far too early. “Gonna let me go so I can touch you, too?”
“Nah, I like you like this.” Bluestreak's hips ground down again, the heat of his panel tangibly evident, but his spike remained concealed. “At my mercy. Pinned beneath me. Begging for it with everything but words. I like words, Jazz.”
He laughed, lifting his legs and bracketing Bluestreak's hips, inner thigh plating rubbing against Bluestreak's armor. “Know you do. Use 'em all the time.”
“Don't pretend to hate it,” Bluestreak purred, squeezing Jazz's wrists again, grinding the delicate components together with just an edge of pain to spice things up.
Charge leapt out from under Jazz's plating, which had already lifted wide to ventilate the heat coursing across his lines. “Now who's the fragging tease?” he demanded as a bead of lubricant slipped from his valve, coating Bluestreak's spike covering. “C'mon, Blue. Spike me already!”
The gunner's servo shifted, abandoning his grip on Jazz's hip to slide between his legs, one digit tracing the outline of his valve. “You're so wet,” Bluestreak observed, still with that same teasing tone. “How long have you been holding it in like this? All day? You been thinking about me all day?”
Jazz rocked his pelvis down, trying to encourage more, a groan echoing from deep within his chassis.
“Hmm. That sounds like a yes to me.” Bluestreak's digit continued its maddening touches, circling over and over the ring of outer sensors. “Been thinking about my spike? Want to feel it? Taste it?”
“Primus!” Jazz's engine revved, another spurt of lubricant oozing out of his valve. Bluestreak's devious side never ceased to surprise him.
A soft chuckle spilled from Bluestreak's vocalizer, his ex-vents ghosting over Jazz's clavicular brace. “I don't hear any begging, Jazz.”
His thighs tightened on Bluestreak's hips and his wrists tugged in a token attempt at breaking free. The static crackling beneath his armor clawed its way free, dancing over his plating in bright bursts of electric blue.
“Spike me,” Jazz demanded, his hips circling in time to the slow, steady motions of Bluestreak's finger.
“That sounded more like an order,” Bluestreak chastised though there was little anger in his tone. “You're forgetting who's in charge here.” His digit stopped moving, resting on the sensor node at the top of Jazz's valve entrance.
The barely-there pressure made Jazz arch up, his pedes slamming against the ground, trying to force contact. Bluestreak had already read his intentions, however, and smoothly slid back a few precious inches.
Jazz's engines revved with frustration. “Please!”
“That's better,” Bluestreak purred and leaned back down again, glossa flicking over the Autobot sigil stamped on his chestplate.
The sound of Bluestreak's panel retracting was a welcome click over the noise of Jazz's ventilations. His spike extended, a spike that Jazz knew was whorled with nubs specially designed to bring pleasure to eager valves. His own clenched with anticipation, memory banks providing him with ample past experience to draw from.
He twitched his hips invitingly. “Please, Blue.”
That hot mouth traced a path upward, over the span of his chestplate, across his neck cables, along the underside of his chin where a light nip announced him. “Keep going,” Bluestreak murmured, the head of his spike nudging the rim of Jazz's valve but going no further.
“Fragging sadist is what you are!” Jazz gritted out, wriggling impatiently. “Please, Blue. Please spike me. Please stop torturing me, slag it!”
Bluestreak nipped at his lower lip. “All right, all right,” he said, free servo wandering back to Jazz's hip. “You don't have to beg.”
A slew of curses burst from Jazz's vocalizer but they fell away in a crackle of static when Bluestreak finally pushed into him with one, sharp thrust.
“Yesss,” Jazz hissed and bucked upward, Bluestreak sinking fully inside of him, igniting every untouched sensor.
Electrical fire spilled from Jazz's plating, jumping ship to dance over Bluestreak's armor as well, teasing at the wires beneath.
Bluestreak's mouth captured his, glossa plunging inside with intent to claim. His servo grasped Jazz's left thigh, hiking his hips upward, so that Bluestreak could thrust more deeply. Jazz slid inches against the grass, feeling dirt and vegetation grind into the seams of his plating. Ratchet was going to froth at the mouth.
Worth it, though. So worth it.
Jazz's valve clenched down, heat pulsing through him. His helm threw back, visor offlining, as pleasure pulsed in his spark.
Bluestreak set up a driving rhythm, angling his thrusts to rake across eager sensors. Jazz moaned a staticky sound, fingers curling into fists, thighs tightening around Bluestreak's hips.
The heat was already building inside of him, overload threatening to spill over him. The race, the scuffle, Blue's energy field prickling over him with relentless desire... it was too much.
“I can feel how close you are,” Bluestreak said, vocals tuned low and seductive, with that rolling purr that always seemed to vibrate perfectly across Jazz's chassis. “You're so tight around me. Hot and wet.” He rolled his helm, vocalizing right into Jazz's audial. “I want to feel you overload, feel you clench down on me. You gonna give it to me?”
Jazz whined, frame writhing beneath Bluestreak, wishing he could touch and knowing far better than to try and wrench his wrists free.
“I think you are,” Bluestreak said, thrusting into Jazz and grinding his hips in tiny circles, spike stirring in Jazz's valve. “I think you're going to overload. Squeeze my spike so tight, let me feel every inch of your valve.”
Jazz's wrists jerked up before he could stop himself and Bluestreak slammed them back down with more strength than anyone would give the gunner credit. His weight blanketed Jazz, keeping him pinned, a delicious simulation of being bound and dominated.
“B-Blue...”
“That's it,” Bluestreak purred. “Call my designation. Do it, Jazz. Overload for me.”
He sucked his lipplate into his mouth, pulling in a desperate ventilation, pedes kicking against the back of Bluestreak's thighs.
“Come on, Jazz,” Bluestreak said. “Do it.” His glossa flicked against Jazz's audial, charge crackling between them.
Overload cracked through him like a whip, roaring from his vocalizer and clenching down his valve. Heat flooded over him, static crackling in rolling waves of bright blue.
Jazz's backstrut curved away from the ground, Bluestreak's designation echoing from his vocalizer in a spiraling cry.
Jazz sank back against the ground, vents working furiously, valve cycling on Bluestreak's spike. His mate was still pressurized, patiently enjoying the oscillations of Jazz's valve.
“That's one,” Bluestreak purred, dragging his mouth back to Jazz's, ex-vents ghosting over his lips.
He began to roll his hips again, pushing in and out of Jazz's valve with gentle thrusts, building a slow charge.
“Now it's my turn.”
Jazz turned his helm, nuzzling his faceplate against Bluestreak's. “Ya drive me crazy, Blue.”
“The feeling's mutual.” Affection purred in Bluestreak's energy field, flavored by the surges of intense desire. “So let's see how many more I can get from you before Prowl starts pinging us with reprimands.”
Jazz revved his engine in approval.
a/n: That prompt grabbed hold of my smutty muses and wouldn't let go. They said, hey, we haven't done a PWP with Blue/Jazz yet. And I said, well, let's get to it. And then they said, and hey, for the sake of shaking things up, let's make it sticky. And I said, I could get down with that.
And thus are the origins of this fic. :)
Feedback is love. Comments on grammar are fine. I self-betaed so point out any mistakes if you see them.
Still got some more quick 'n dirty RatchxTwins smut on the queue. And if I ever get this monster of a Hot RodxTracks done, it'll be a miracle. February is for War Without End! (maybe). We'll see how it goes.
