I got nothin' in this crackish mind of mine. Enjoy!

Jazz still doesn't remember how this started. It all happened in a haze, blurred together by energon and festive socialization.

Even though he was an esteemed member of the Elite Guard, Jazz grew up a hard partier and just couldn't break the habit. The Academy held annual celebrations to congratulate the graduates and name a few more honorary ensigns into the Guard, which usually meant energon, which usually meant a lot of toasts. Jazz hated refusing toasts. There were lots of them this night.

It was bad. It was very, very bad—Ultra Magnus scolded him on more than one occasion when he got too slagged to stand, telling him that he should be setting a good example for the ensigns and restraining himself. But, as was stated before, Jazz was a bred and sparked party 'Bot. He was a city mech and a once fervent clubber. Energon and bright flashing lights gave him life. He thrived on social hot spots and drank up the attention like a flower in the sunlight.

A pair of hands is shifting all over him and Jazz tries to think back through the haze. He remembers dancing; lots of dancing. Dancing alone, dancing with partners, dancing in groups. It wasn't the kind of dancing he was used to from the clubs, but it was still dancing. Mechs, femmes, all, dancing around him; somehow he'd ended up in the middle, swaying vividly to the music. Jazz always had an audio for rhythm.

His onlooker was tall and huge; it was easy to pick him out of the sea of faces. It helped to know that he had to deal with that face on a regular basis. But here, the expression on it was not one Jazz was accustomed to: instead of its usual stern, smug grin, the mech's lips were pulled down at the corners in a serious frown, and his optics were following Jazz's every move. Every sway, sashay and twist and turn held rigidly under his gaze. They raked over Jazz's form like a Pitspawn possessed. The ninjabot wasn't aware his comrade ever swung that way, but it interested him.

Then what happened…?

Right—he was grabbed, and pulled aside. Something was mumbled in his ear, Jazz couldn't remember what—but he remembered protesting, and being dragged along—maybe something about being too drunk—perhaps about his reputation—Ultra Magnus—that name had been enough to make him shut up. He shouted an abrasive apology, manners dulled by an overcharged state, and hushed as a grey-fingered hand detaches him from the party, leading him off through the Academy halls.

Jazz may not be able to think straight through six cubes, but it doesn't make him stupid. He stumbles along behind his larger comrade, and can't stop a grin from sliding over his lips. He pulls at the mech's arm and mumbles aroused, affectionate nothings to him.

The mech jerks out of his grip and keeps dragging.

He was confused by that at the time, but he caught on after they got to a private room—probably the mech's quarters. Jazz slurred his question for an explanation and was answered by two hands grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head after being roughly dropped on the berth to be more level with his current partner. He's slammed against the wall and firm lips close over his in a rough, clumsy kiss.

Jazz wasn't sure how overcharged Sentinel was, but he'd just hauled him off to his private quarters in order to ravish him, apparently. It appeared there were secrets to be kept.

There wasn't any arguing. Jazz didn't speak a word, and neither did Sentinel. There was nothing to be said—they were both overcharged out of their processors and they would probably mildly regret this come tomorrow and this would never, ever, ever leave the room, but the future didn't matter right now. It only mattered that Jazz was working his lips against Sentinel's, soft experienced kisses trying to ease the crushing clumsiness of the bulkier mech's. Sentinel pressed Jazz back against the wall as far as he would go and bit harshly on his bottom lip, fingers tightening on his wrists. Jazz winces, mumbles in the other's audio, and the grip relaxes.

Hands run down his arms, over his sleek chassis and over smooth shaped thighs, lips and teeth grazing his neck, and his audios—Jazz moans aloud when Sentinel clamps down on one headphone and he's momentarily riddled with static as the brawny mech sucks hard. He returns the favor with hands on Sentinel's own audios, hooking his legs around the mech's waist. Sentinel runs firm hands over pliable metallic hips and squeezes Jazz's aft and nips at the space just under his chassis. There are seams in the unusually manipulative metal where bulkier cover armor once resided, on Jazz's sides and on his thighs. He had to give it all up for the sake of speed in order to advance in his ninja training. Jazz's entire body from his chest to his knees is a vulnerable metallic muscle; not entirely without defense, but still highly susceptive to pain.

There's no pain as a dark glossa traces the seams, though.

Jazz's world shrinks a little and he arches, squirming live-like in Sentinel's arms while the other irritably forces him still with a dominant growl. Still, the ninjabot can't help it; whimpers and mewls and moans spill one after the other from his vocals and he digs his fingers into the berth, running them restlessly over Sentinel's helm while the mech nips and kisses his sensitive middle, making a rushed but oh-so-wonderful trail down the center. There's no time to think about how the slag he ever agreed to this and no reason to care. Sentinel is quite honestly not Jazz's type of mech, but so far he isn't disappointed.

Then Sentinel's tongue presses against the topmost red strip streaked across his pelvis and Jazz bucks sharply. His intakes skip several cycles and he arches so hard his head knocks against the wall.

No, not disappointed one bit.

Sentinel pauses, quirking an optic ridge at Jazz's expression. But he catches on quickly, and an evil glint flashes in his eyes. The familiar smug grin returns for a moment before his attentions go back to the marking. He moves his glossa in a slow streak over the top stripe and Jazz melts on the berth, his cry an ecstatic mix between a moan and a sob. His visor flashes and he rolls his hips up as Sentinel goes back over the top strip and moves to the one below it, repeating the same motions again, this time ending each slow lick with a hard nip of teeth on the edges. Jazz's systems go from cold to burning in astro-seconds and his vents can't properly cycle their intakes. He thrashes, twitching and quivering and reaches down and grabs Sentinel's audios like a set of reigns to lead him onward, pulling until they may very well get yanked right off. Sentinel stops only briefly at the notion with a hard shudder and moves on to the bright red arrow, pointing out a lewd suggestion that Sentinel complies with in full. He sucks on the very tip of the arrow and runs his tongue over the edges, and slowly fills in the gap—nipping, licking, sucking, covering every hypersensitive neural network clustered into the marking.

Jazz loses his voice somewhere along the way and bites down, arching in a near-perfect curve. He overloads when Sentinel bites the arrow's point and is denied the graceful fall as the mech continues. The frantic cycling of his vents, the blue lightning crackling over the seams of his armor and the way he trembles are the only signs of his full and blissful enjoyment. He finally finds the strength to moan, to scream, collapsing against the berth, steaming from the sustained overload. His head spins for a while and he can't grab his bearings until his visor cools away the haze blocking his optics.

Sentinel laughs at him. He's smug again.

"Bet you'll think twice before getting overcharged next time, huh?"

Jazz is still shuddering and can't speak straight. He just growls and pushes at Sentinel's face with one foot, his body still hot to the touch. He finally manages something through the static. "Shouldn't be rewardin' me for bad behavior, man."

Sentinel snorts. "And now we've both got reasons to keep our traps shut by Ultra Magnus. Not a word. Am I clear?"

"Pfft. Same ol' Sentinel," Jazz sighs.