Title: What to Live for, a Christmas gift for Rusty Chevy who asked for Jazz/NotProwl
Rating: NC-17 for detailed physical intimacy between mechanical beings including plug-n-play. Brief description of non-con in the recent past.
Pairing: Jazz/Bluestreak, references to each with others, past.
Note: Hurt/comfort. 6900 words.
He could not recharge. The medical officer in this facility, Wrench or Ratchet or somesuch word for necessary simple tool type, told him he was repaired and ushered him from the repair center. I don't feel repaired at all even though my body is intact I hurt all over and just can't get comfortable. Worse, Bluestreak knew no one in the facility, didn't know the facility to know where to go to meet new people and didn't feel much like talking anyway. Although he was grateful to the Autobots who rescued him from the debris of his city, he almost wished they hadn't. What am I supposed to do now go out hunting the mechs who destroyed my home my family my life? Why? It's not like I could destroy them all the Decepticon army is huge bigger than the Autobots let on bigger than the leaders of my city ever guessed or they would not have reached for us we were armed we were prepared we put up a fight for our neutrality trying to stay out of this stupid war. He levered himself up off the recharge platform in the tiny room they had given him. He left the room, absently making note that he turned right outside his door and made three lefts before coming to a hallway where he could hear music and mechs talking. Despite himself, he turned toward the sounds - right - instead of left and away. It's not like I want to talk to anyone I just don't want to be alone anymore I was alone for orns. His energon-processing system hitched as he remembered again the dark and the cold and the feeling of certainty that he would die alone in the rubble of his city listening to the Decepticon patrols over-fly the debris watching for signs of life.
As he turned into the room the bright light of it assaulted his optics and he nearly turned back around, but the dark and the quiet and the loneliness of the corridor prevented him. There were upwards of twenty Autobots in the room, half dancing to music that had been popular in his city nearly a vorn past, the other half lounging around the room in small groups, talking and drinking and watching the dancers. He found an out-of-the-way seat at a table on the edge of the room and settled in to watch the activity, wishing he had the energy to participate or the manifolds to take himself back to his tiny room with its impersonal bunk and institutional lights.
The music reminded him of a better time and a femme long since run away to join the war effort. Moonracer, he thought of her. I wonder what ever happened to you with your super-quick temper and even faster laugh and your way with the mechs. You could have had anyone in town and you did including me but you wanted adventure and to feel like you mattered maybe you were right maybe looking for adventure saved you but I'll never know -
A mech from the dance floor landed at his table with a femme on each arm completely halting his thoughts. "Hiya, friend!" the mech said jovially, speech only slightly slurred from the high-grade energon he'd doubtless been consuming. His voice was notable. Bluestreak immediately recognized him as one of the four who had pulled him from the debris two orns ago. He tried to look happy to see the jaunty mech. "I see Ratchet fixed ya right up. He's a good one, don'tcha doubt it. A bit o' crust on an energon-goodie doesn't make it any less good for ya, ya know?" He leaned back in his seat and one of the femmes tried to settle on his lap, making the friendly smile on his handsome face turn decidedly lecherous before the other femme hauled her back up and out to the dance floor. He made a show of looking slightly disappointed but watched them walk away, all the way until they shuffled into the mix of dancers. He turned his visored face back to Bluestreak and almost sprawled in his chair, he was so relaxed. Bluestreak got the distinct impression the mech was trying to show off, making sure he got a chance to see him and notice the way the light played across his bright blue and red stripes in the white of his chassis. "Quasar only lets Phosphora hang out with me 'cause I help her loosen up." His vocalization was almost conspiratorial as he leaned forward on the table, holding Bluestreak's optics with his own, "An' I don't mind 'cause they're both gorgeous an' when I'm out with 'em no one hits on me. I'm really into bots with wings - er -" he laughed, drunkenly, reaching out a black hand to Bluestreak that did not touch, but spoke of admiration for the flightless wing-like appendages on Bluestreak's back. "Did I say that out loud?" He flashed his optics behind the visor merrily.
Bluestreak had no doubt that the mech knew very well he'd said all that out loud. He didn't know what to think of this. An answer seemed required as the mech took the opportunity to study him. "Yes you said that out loud but I haven't seen any flyers among the Autobots so you must really be out of luck most of the time. I'm sorry I don't remember your name what was it again? I know I heard it but that was two orns ago and I was having trouble staying on-line so it's all run pretty badly together and Ratchet didn't have time to talk to me much before he let me go from medical and I know no one here can't say I know you or the others who brought me here I'm sorry..."
Poor guy's all alone, Jazz thought as Bluestreak rambled through an answer to his rhetorical question. Not nearly as inebriated as he acted, he hoped to make the young mech feel welcome. The ultra-violet femme, Quasar, made optic contact with him as she led her dazzling green partner out of the room. He dimmed his optics at her in acknowledgement. They are amazing, he thought, remembering the one time they'd invited him to play. Quasar said he was welcome anytime, so long as he didn't get it in his processor to tell anyone about it. He shuddered, and turned the movement into another attempt to get Bluestreak to actually look at him. Poor guy's rambling, he thought, tuning back into the flow of nervous words: "...can't say I know you or the others who brought me here I'm sorry and now your dates have left and -"
Jazz cut in, realizing the flow of words might not stop on their own, "Oh, no, can't call 'em my dates! They belong to each other, although they could own me anytime they wanted," he laughed. Bluestreak stopped talking. Jazz leaned forward again, and extended a hand this time as a greeting, "M'name's Jazz. I'd be surprised if ya did remember it, considerin' what you'd been through." Bluestreak shyly extended his hand in mirror of Jazz' and gingerly returned the grasp Jazz briefly gave his forearm, unused to the warriors' greeting. Jazz released his arm, noticing the repairs that were still firming up in the char-gray plating. Bluestreak grimaced fleetingly. "Sorry, man, did I scrape over a mended spot?"
Bluestreak answered him, again rambling on after admitting that everything felt sensitive and much of his frame was sore.
"Lemme get us some energon," Jazz offered and stood up gracefully before Bluestreak could turn it down, "it might not make ya feel better, Streak, but it'll make ya care some'at less."
As he walked across the room, he heard their newest recruit say, "All right I guess but my name's Bluestreak it was in my family every generation and -" Jazz didn't strain his audios to pick up the flow of words as the intervening bots and the music came between them, trusting the young mech would still be there when he returned from the dispenser.
Bluestreak thought he knew what the mech was up to going to ply him with energon play on his gratitude for being alive and expect to have a bit of fun with him. When Jazz was nearly at the dispenser, barely visible through the dancers, Bluestreak stopped vocalizing. He made it pretty clear he likes my winglets and now he knows everything hurts so he's going to bring me energon thinking to dull the pain and any inhibitions and maybe it would be good for me but I'm not sure I even want to keep cycling air let alone keep talking what am I doing here? I'm going to go now before he gets back, he thought, standing up as Jazz held up two fingers for the mech doling out the dangerously-colored liquid. I'll just go quietly back to my room leave this one go left at the first crossing then make three rights and a left into my little room what was the entry code again? he thought as he made the door and the cooler air of the hallway. He hadn't taken two steps down the darkened hall - this was the middle of the base's normal recharge period - when he heard the mech behind him.
"If you're takin' the party somewhere else, can I come too?" Jazz slurred a little, overtaking him.
"You're pretty coordinated for a bot that acts half drunk Jazz I think there's more you want than to have a drink with me and welcome me here but I don't think I'm up to that I don't think I'm up to much of anything I almost wish you hadn't found me might be better off if -"
Jazz was disappointed that Bluestreak was trying to sneak out while he was up, but understood. I am comin' on strong. He caught up to him in the hallway and again adjusted his vocalization to sound like he'd had more high-grade than he really had, "If you're takin' the party somewhere else, can I come too?"
Bluestreak started rambling. Walking faster as he talked, he was nearly running when he said what Jazz was afraid of: "I almost wish you hadn't found me."
"Oh no," Jazz talked over him, trying to get his attention as he broke into a run to keep up with the larger, leggy mech. He recognized the part of the base they were turning into: tiny quarters with poor airflow and worse thermal regulation. Balancing the two small cubes of energon in his left hand, he reached his right out to grasp Bluestreak's left forearm. "That is no way to talk, now, Bluestreak," he said with no trace of inebriation, serious as could be. He slowed and stopped, grateful that Bluestreak not only quieted to listen to him but slowed his pace rather than pulling out of his grasp. "D'you know we were havin' that party partially 'cause o' you? Quasar and Trailbreaker and Hound were the other three who helped me search your city for survivors an' supplies. Trailbreaker's the one who set up that field around ya ta keep ya from losin' any more fluids while he hauled ya back. He prob'ly used more energon doin' that than we found in the ruins. It ain't no way ta thank 'im to be thinkin' like that." Jazz realized his words were more serious, more harsh, than he wanted to lay on the recovering mech. Bluestreak's shoulders slumped and his head drooped to his chest. "Hey," Jazz purred, "I promise I will not do a thing. But ya shouldn't be alone - ya spent too long alone and wounded - and I know the rooms down here are awful." Bluestreak looked at him, expression somewhere between wariness and indifference. Jazz released his arm long enough to put one of the cubes of high-grade in his hand, then gently took him by the same elbow, careful of mend-seams. "Drink this and come with me," he said, guiding the cooperative mech slowly to the elevator to take him to his own quarters. Bluestreak started up a rambling list of things he used to like to do with the bots he wouldn't see again. He sounded on the verge of a breakdown, but he took a few breaks as they walked to sip from the container. Jazz didn't interrupt. I can't believe Ratchet didn't appoint a suicide watch on this guy, he thought, listening to the soliloquy. If I can't get him to shut up and recharge, I may be suicidal my own self 'fore too long.
At the door to his room Jazz decided to hand Bluestreak the second cube of energon to free a hand to work the lock rather than let go of him. Bluestreak looked at the two cubes and seemed to make an executive decision: he downed the half-empty one in a shot and slipped the new one into it. This produced a break in his speech that Jazz decided to use to explain his situation. "Now, I share this room with a guy named Tracks." The door slid open on an unoccupied room, lit by the soft blue light Tracks preferred left on because he claimed it really flattered the red of his faceplates. Truth be told, Tracks was afraid of the dark. Primus knows he's got good reason to be! "He's not around much - he gets around, if ya get me - so you can have my berth and I'll take his. He's invited me to it enough I feel entitled to take him up on it even if he's not in it at the time." He guided his guest through the portal and triggered it closed, grateful Tracks' latest fling (flings?) had not yet soured.
Bluestreak started up again, talking this time about bots he'd known who'd gotten around. His voice hitched on the names of those whom he was sure were dead. Jazz guided him to his recharge plate. Bluestreak took a good long draw from the second serving of high-grade. As he sat on the edge of the plate, he began a story about a femme named Moonracer. Jazz wondered why he started to sound hopeful, but didn't dare ask. Let him talk it out, he thought, gently taking the empty container from Bluestreak without disturbing the one still in use. Moonracer, why do I know that name?
"...don't know where she ended up or even if she managed to join up with you Autobots." Bluestreak's reminiscence about Moonracer seemed to be winding to a halt. His winglets drooped and his optics dimmed to a dark blue. A sob wracked his frame. He pushed the half-finished container at his host.
Jazz felt like someone had poured freon over his spark casing. He set the cube on the small table beside his berth. He had to offer to help this mech. How many others have had their homes destroyed because o' us? Because o' me? knowing he'd planted the information in the Decepticon databanks that most likely precipitated the strike on the neutral city tore at his conscience. He sat down beside the despondent bot. Much as he wanted to touch the winglets in a sensual way, he offered only comfort, firmly stroking the joints where they met Bluestreak's back with two knuckles. "I'm sure she found us, Streak, it's not like we're hard ta find. Primus, the 'Cons find us all the time and we try ta hide from them." He smiled, trying to force lightness into his vocalization, knowing Bluestreak wasn't really seeing the deckplates at which he seemed to stare as he wept.
Bluestreak attempted a smile and failed, turning his head to look at Jazz briefly. "My name's Bluestreak it was in my family every generation we know there's not much blue in our paint scheme but if you ever see us -" his vocalizer hitched alarmingly and he seemed to lose momentum. Jazz kept gently petting the joints and the middle of his back. Bluestreak tried to continue, "- if you ever see us," he sobbed, "in starlight," he lost his last shred of composure and wilted against the smaller mech, arms folded over his abdomen. He laid his forehead against Jazz' near shoulder, winglets still drooping but starting to relax with Jazz' attention. "I'll do anything you want," he said finally, resignedly, "just please don't leave me alone don't stop what you're doing don't leave me alone in the dark and -"
The resignation in his voice completely stilled any interest that may have been building in Jazz at having the beautiful winged mech in his berth. "Sshh," he murmured, cutting his guest off again, "I won't leave ya anywhere, and I'm not gonna ask ya to do anything." He found he was supporting a great deal of the weight of Bluestreak's torso as he cried tears of coolant onto his shoulder. "Why don't you lie down here on the plate," he maneuvered Bluestreak as he spoke, "and I'll rub yer back until you can recharge." Bluestreak cooperated, still grieving quietly, laying down on his front to allow Jazz full access to his back. "Then I'll just be right over there," Jazz pointed with his free hand to Tracks' berth against the far wall, never stopping the steady rhythm up and down Bluestreak's back, "and you won't be alone." Bluestreak nodded before resting his head against his folded arms. "Is the plate warm enough or should I turn it up a bit?" No answer. "Bluestreak?" he asked softly, realizing his new friend was already off-line.
He was trapped under the east wall where it had fallen in the bombing. His back hurt and his shoulders were on fire. He couldn't move and gave himself up to the darkness of off-line.
Somehow he was on his knees. It was too dark to see anything but the red optics of the one who had moved him there. He couldn't move his feet or his winglets to transform and he could tell his rocket-launchers had been torn from their moorings on his shoulders. His arms were pinned painfully behind him. Primus, he hurt. His right arm - his whole right side - was covered in fluids and it was cold. The red optics moved closer to him and their color intensified to a burning orange as fingers roughly seized his battered face. "You'll do nicely," a voice purred, silky and piercing at once. The mech's other hand was searching his plating, teasing and roughly probing.
He knew what the mech was going to do - or was it that he had already been doing it? "No," he started to protest, somehow knowing what was coming - or what had already been done to him - seized by fear as surely as his antagonist held his chin. "No no no no no no no no no no no no"
Someone else was shaking his undamaged - wait! weren't both his launchers torn off? - shoulder. A voice full of concern entered his consciousness: "Bluestreak? Are you all right, man? Streak? Bluestreak, ya gotta come back on-line b'fore ya hurt yourself. Nobody's gonna hurt ya here."
He jerked awake, rolling away from the concerned mech who was shaking him, hands nowhere near his face, optics pale behind the intensely blue visor. His cooling system cycled erratically. He found he could move both hands and rubbed his wrists, all the way up both arms to his shoulders, relieved to find the plating dry and intact and the mountings for his rocket launchers repaired, just empty. He looked around the room, getting his bearings.
"Bluestreak? Are ya with me?" the visored mech - his host, one of his rescuers, he remembered - asked with concern. He reached out a hand to Bluestreak but dropped it quickly to his side when he shied away, further back toward the wall.
Bluestreak dimmed his optics once in a gesture of admission. "Yes, I am," he said slowly, testing his vocalizer that his memory said should be hoarse from screaming. He leaned back, resting his winglets against the cool, smooth surface of the wall. The berth was warm where he'd been lying on it, warm and clean and dry. "Jazz I'm sorry I must have interrupted your recharge and I've already displaced you from your berth I should go back to -"
Jazz cut him off again. He seemed to have developed that habit whenever Bluestreak's answer turned into a dissertation. Oddly, he was grateful for it. "No way. A groon ago ya begged me not ta leave ya alone. If you're havin' dreams like that there is no way in the Pit I'd leave ya ta maybe have another, with no one there ta pull ya out of it."
Bluestreak looked at him through new optics. Jazz picked up the forgotten container of energon from the table beside the berth and offered it to him. He declined, silently, and tried to smile, trying hard not to start his vocalizer again.
"Why don'tcha lay back down? I don't have duty for another orn and if Ratchet goes ta look for ya, he'll happen on someone who saw us leave the party together. I need ta recharge more, myself." He downed the remaining energon smoothly as he walked the handful of steps back to his missing roommate's berth.
Bluestreak found his vocalizer running despite himself. "Would you stay with me I mean over here not over there this is your berth and you've been so kind and you said you like my winglets and I like that you like my winglets it was amazing when you touched me a little -"
Jazz turned slowly around and subspaced the empty container. Bluestreak stopped talking on his own before Jazz began. "Yeah, I like your wings. I think you're a fine-lookin' mech all around," he stepped slowly closer, as if thinking of all the reasons he shouldn't, "but you specifically acted like you thought I was trying ta take advantage of ya when I sat down ta talk to you. I suppose you're right to a point: I do wanna interface with you. But I don't wanna do anything if you're not interested. I don't want you to think I brought you here expectin' anything. I can't believe Ratchet didn't set a watch on you, the way you were talkin'." He stopped and sat carefully on the edge of the berth, body language somehow both leaving and arriving, hands neutrally folded in his lap. His melodic voice grew more serious and he looked Bluestreak squarely in the optic. "I'm not gonna deny that I'm interested but anythin' we do together will be on your terms. Are you sure you want me this close? I can recharge just fine over there."
Bluestreak found himself fascinated by the way the soft blue light from the far side of the room played over the plating of the mech before him. It turned his black hands a rich indigo, made the expanses of white match his bright optics as they shown through the visor, turned the blue of his striping into highlights and the red a purple that sparkled like the stars. He tentatively reached out and touched Jazz, just trailing fingers up his forearm. "My dream," he started slowly, feeling the need to tell Jazz about it, to explain what he had just saved him from reliving, "wasn't a dream it was a memory-" he moved closer to Jazz on the berth so that their thighs touched, "before you found me there was one who came and pulled me out from under the wall and he," his voice hitched again, so he stopped to draw air through his cooling system. He moved his hands up to Jazz' shoulders then back down his arms to draw Jazz' hands to his own waist. He drew air sharply as Jazz began to caress him gently, optics never leaving his face. He found he was drawn to lean closer to Jazz as if caught in a gravity well or a magnetic field. "He did things to me Jazz that I never thought could be bad things and I don't want to have that memory but now I know that interfacing can be a bad thing and I wish I didn't kn-"
"Sshh," Jazz breathed, kissing him gently to stop his vocalization, "if you want me to, I can remind you that it's a good thing." He brought his hands up to Bluestreak's face, caressing the cool faceplates and downright cold helm and chevron. Bluestreak off-lined his optics and leaned into Jazz' hands. "Are you sure the temperature's set warm enough?" he asked between light, testing kisses. "I can turn it up."
Bluestreak started to move, pulling Jazz fully onto the berth and on top of him, winglets splayed beneath him. "Oh I think you can make me warm all by yourself Jazz-" Pause while Jazz kissed him again, this time letting his glossa brush against their lip components before moving on to Bluestreak's neck, "you've been so kind to me and you didn't have to be and it's hard to know my whole family's gone and my city and to wond-" Jazz moved his hands to Bluestreak's sides, just touching the surface of his wings. Bluestreak kissed the top of Jazz' helm as Jazz moved atop him somehow finding some very sensitive spots on his plating. "To wonder why I was still alive when everyone else was gone and wonder what I had to live for and why Primus let me live when-" Jazz pushed himself back up Bluestreak by his hands on his wing-joints, nearly worked all the way up under both of them, just to kiss him into silence. Optics off, lips moving together, Jazz entwined their glossae and did something Bluestreak had never encountered before: he drew both of them into his own mouth. Bluestreak found it the single most erotic thing he'd ever felt. Jazz pulled away from him and Bluestreak powered his optics, ready to protest, but Jazz was just letting Bluestreak's glossa pass through his lips in such a way that every micron of his glossa was stimulated. Bluestreak shuddered and turned his optics back off, letting his helm rest against the padding of the berth.
Jazz thought they would just play at interfacing for a little while and Bluestreak would pass into recharge and they could try it again some other time. Or not, as Bluestreak wanted. Tracks' blue light gave him some idea of what Bluestreak meant when he said he should be viewed in starlight to live up to his name. The blue light brought out highlights in his color scheme that Ratchet must have recreated, considering the condition he was in when they found him. As Bluestreak drew Jazz' hands to his waist, Jazz carefully watched his optics for any bad reaction. He'd been so battered when they found him, Jazz wasn't sure but he thought it looked like someone had forcefully opened Bluestreak's interface coverplate. His next words confirmed it, "He did things to me Jazz that I never thought could be bad things and I don't want to have that memory but now I know that interfacing can be a bad thing and I wish I didn't kn-"
Jazz shushed him as gently as he could and kissed him softly on the lips, not wanting him to even have that memory, let alone have to relive it. "If you want me to, I can remind you that it's a good thing." He touched Bluestreak's face and found all his plating cool to the touch, his chevron and helmet icy. "Are you sure the temperature's set warm enough?" he asked, kissing Bluestreak lightly, "I can turn it up."
In answer Bluestreak lay down and pulled Jazz down onto him, letting his chest and hips take Jazz' full weight. He answered, and Jazz would not have believed anything he could say would affect his systems quite like it did: "I think you can make me warm all by yourself Jazz." Jazz kissed him again, unable to keep from trying to deepen the kiss, but moving on before his glossa did more than brush against Bluestreak's lips. He moved down Bluestreak's neck, trying to make his kisses and the movements of his glossa playful and light even though he was sorely tempted to be forceful. Bluestreak started talking again, "You've been so kind to me and you didn't have to be and it's hard to know my whole family's gone and my city and to wond-" Jazz had to break the flow of words but didn't trust himself not to take things too far too fast if he kissed him on the mouth again, so he teased the surface of Bluestreak's wings. The response was unexpected: Bluestreak kissed the top of Jazz' helm. Then he kept talking, "To wonder why I was still alive when everyone else was gone and wonder what I had to live for and why Primus let me live when-" Jazz had to stop that train of thought but the only way seemed to be to occupy his mouth. Jazz kissed him into silence. Bluestreak kissed back, moving with him perfectly, lips parted just so, and glossa... Bluestreak was younger than Jazz but apparently not much less experienced. They entwined their glossae. Hands wandered everywhere. Jazz drew their glossae into his mouth just to pull away and feel Bluestreak's glossa pass through his lips. Bluestreak shuddered beneath him deliciously. As soon as the tip of Bluestreak's glossa left his mouth, Jazz leaned down to kiss him again. Bluestreak positively invaded his mouth, bringing his hands up to grasp Jazz' head firmly and hold him in place so they could kiss, Bluestreak absolutely devouring Jazz' lips and glossa. Jazz' wandering hands found Bluestreak's interface coverplate and Bluestreak's whole body twitched under him.
He moaned, and something in the sound made Jazz think there was pain involved.
Jazz rocked up onto his knees astraddle Bluestreak's waist. "Is something wrong? You can tell me if we need to stop or if I do somethin' that hurts you. You have ta tell me 'cause otherwise I won't know."
Bluestreak on-lined his optics and seemed to assess the sincerity on Jazz' face. Engine purring in clear arousal, he pushed himself up, sliding his legs partially out from under Jazz. He drew Jazz closer to him and made to turn him to sit across his lap; Jazz complied. Resting his helm against Jazz', he spoke with nearly no volume so even Jazz' sensitive audio receptors strained to understand him, "No Jazz nothing's wrong I'm just not one hundred percent and everything's sensitive and you're doing everything right and I want to do everything right for you -" Jazz tried to interrupt him but Bluestreak kept talking this time, planning to say certain things and stop on his own, "but I need - no kidding need if I'm gonna have any chance to wind down later - for you to touch my winglets doesn't really matter where but I have to take the weight off them so I can enjoy the feel of what you do and please if you can take the visor off let me see your optics." He did stop and looked intently at Jazz hoping he'd been understood.
Jazz scooted even closer to Bluestreak's chest, dropping his right shoulder to work his arm around behind Bluestreak, starting up the disengaged transformation mechanisms in his hand so that his fingers could stimulate Bluestreak's wing-joint just by being in contact with it. It was the most delicate he could be. He wasn't certain he'd heard the very last part right, partially because his processor suffered a small set-back when he realized Bluestreak was telling him he needed his winglets to be touched. That made his systems speed up, including his motor. "D'you want me to take my visor off? I'm not sure I heard right. I'll do it for ya if ya want."
Bluestreak's optics were off and the look on his face was pure bliss. Jazz wasn't sure he'd been heard and was disinclined to worry about it if just the stimulation from his fingers could make him look ... like that. "I want to make sure you know there's always somethin' ta live for," he whispered, kissing Bluestreak's chin and cheek and optic ridge, pulling his head down by the chevron.
"Mmmm," Bluestreak moaned, then answered remarkably briefly, "Yes please take it off show me your optics."
Jazz disengaged the catches that held the visor in his helmet and reached up with his free hand to remove it. Bluestreak beat him to it. Optics powered, he gently lifted the blue steel glass from Jazz' face and placed it carefully on the little berth-side table. He brought one hand up to Jazz' face, reverently touching the now-exposed forehead, optic ridge and nose. "You're very handsome," he breathed, other hand trailing down Jazz' body as if forgotten, "can't imagine why you keep so much of your face covered like that and your optics are such a piercing blue can you see through me?"
Jazz trembled. He'd never known anyone who talked as much as Bluestreak, period, and would never have believed it could actually be ... sexy ... stimulating in its own right.
Literally optic-to-optic, Bluestreak found his interface port. With his fingerpads he tenderly caressed the little plate, encouraging Jazz to trigger it open. He kept talking and it was still a turn-on: "I want to know you I know you can show me how it's supposed to be you said you can remind me it's a good thing I think I'm ready," Jazz heard the coverplate of Bluestreak's recently-replaced interface housing slide aside and the sound reminded him what Bluestreak's fingers were doing. He felt the excitement build in all his lines of current and fluid and gear and he let his own interface cover open. Bluestreak's fingers gently explored the orifice, optics never leaving Jazz', vocalizer never stopping. Jazz increased the vibration to his hand on Bluestreak's winglet and trailed his other hand down from the red chevron around the helmet, over the light on his shapely chestplate and down to his waist. Bluestreak was working his fingers around Jazz' interface cable, "I want you to plug into me and I want to plug into you and I don't want to wonder what's going to happen or what's not going to happen. What you've done for me feels so good so good to be alive after all those orns of pain. Oh!" Bluestreak exclaimed and stopped vocalizing when Jazz drew the red interface cable from its place in Bluestreak's body. His optics dimmed and he held very still.
Jazz only had to move his head a tiny bit to kiss Bluestreak. He off-lined his own optics, starting what he intended to be a tender, pre-coupling kiss.
Bluestreak ... wanted. He changed the angle of his head slightly to get a better angle. His arms were just long enough that the one not holding Jazz' interface cable, oh so gently!, could press Jazz against him firmly and turn so that his elbow was somewhere in the middle of Jazz' back and his hand on Jazz' neck.
Jazz felt ... consumed by the kiss, as if there was a fire in his midsection where his interface equipment was exposed and another fire pouring into him through his open mouth and when they met he would be burned up, used up, destroyed and remade.
Hands on auto-pilot, each drew the other's interface cable to his own port. Bluestreak broke the kiss, cycling air frantically. He leaned his helm against Jazz' and started his running commentary again, "Jazz you're amazing," he clicked Jazz' cable into his own port, "and I want you to feel what you are doing for me." Jazz' hand shook without need of disengaged transformation gears, but he aligned Bluestreak's cable correctly and made the second connection. The trust Bluestreak was placing in him, letting him do that, struck him before Bluestreak could vocalize it. "I trust you you've been nothing but welcoming and kind and I'm sorry I was suspicious but you're so handsome and everyone's eyes were on you at that party I couldn't imagine I would be anything more to you than a novelty."
Dual connection in place, Jazz was hearing Bluestreak in stereo through audio receptors and as a data stream. Keep sendin' an' kiss me again like that, he said directly in Bluestreak's processor, hands now moving freely over the abused body with certainty. Since Bluestreak plugged into him, making himself by that connection a peripheral to Jazz' own processors, Jazz could read everything without trying. He knew precisely where to touch and where to tease and where to merely ghost his field over the plating because it was too sensitive for greater stimulation. He knew without Bluestreak having to think of it what the Decepticon who found him had done to him, using that very same connection.
By virtue of Jazz plugging into Bluestreak, he had the exact same intimate level of knowledge of Jazz. Where there were orange-red optics and pain and ... theft ... in his recent memory of that one-sided encounter, Jazz was giving, giving bright blue optics and pleasure and ... giving ... to replace it.
Just knowing you want it to feel good and that it feels good for you and you want to give me better memories makes this amazing Jazz amazing. Have I used that word too much with you? I'm not sorry it's the best word to describe what you're doing for me oh sweet Primus what are you doing oh Jazz you're plugged into me and I can read you like a peripheral and I still have to ask what you're doing to me oh Jazz you're gonna send me-! I'm gonna-!
Bluestreak's systems cycled up with his engine as his field expanded out of him, into and through Jazz and out to reflect off the walls back to them. Jazz' field merged with his, intensifying the experience beyond what their already-straining systems could contain. Their engines roared together, adding yet more stimuli to their sensors and they clung to each other riding wave after wave of energy that rippled out through them. Jazz passed Bluestreak all the energy he could over the connection, sharing it out until they both dropped off-line.
"How did you break my lamp?" Tracks' smooth voice demanded. He didn't want to deal with Tracks at all and didn't even know the lamp was broken until just then.
He'd almost motivated himself to on-line his optics and move to answer his roommate when someone else did. "I'll find a way to fix your lamp you must be Tracks I'm Bluestreak and I don't want to wake Jazz just yet if you don't mind may we please talk about this later?" The voice was in his audios and his processor and the effect was, for lack of a more thorough word, enthralling.
"All right," Tracks was saying, "but if Jazz plans to bring you into our room permanently he'd better be ready to share. You're welcome to stay but only if at least one of you spends time in my bunk while I'm in it." Tracks made one of his haughty, appreciative sounds and left.
Bluestreak gently disconnected his cable from Jazz and tenderly disconnected Jazz' cable from him, guiding it back to his port and coiling it precisely inside. Jazz felt Bluestreak move beneath him and tried to get himself moving to help, but succeeded only in powering up his optics in the time it took Bluestreak to settle them on the plate as he wanted.
"Hmmm," he started to speak, finding he appreciated the way Bluestreak arranged him. "Thanks for handlin' Tracks. I was too slow for ya." And he smiled, thinking it would be nice to recharge a little while longer and try that again. He let his optics power back down.
"Glad I could help it's the least I can do but I don't know how we broke his light I didn't even know we broke his light until he asked I guess the field flares must have done it."
Jazz shuddered, remembering how Bluestreak's speech affected him while they were interfacing. "Did anyone ever tell ya, ya talk too much?"
One word answer, I must've hurt his feelings! "Oh, Bluestreak! No, that's not... When you're woun' up, you say just the right things." He draped his arm across Bluestreak's waist and folded the other one under him so he could just barely move his fingers against the winglet on which he lay.
"Really? 'Cause Ratchet kept telling me to shut up before he made me leave medical and I don't know why I've been talking so much especially during interfacing but the harder I try not to the more nervous I get about it and the more I talk." Bluestreak hugged him against his side and kissed each of his exposed optics.
"Really. You're perfect an' don't let anyone tell ya different."