Title: Conquest and Surrender
Fandom: Transformers G1
Author: FuziPenguin
Pairing/Characters: Bluestreak/Jazz established
Rating: R
Word Count: 750
Summary: So livejournal's dracoqueen22 writes the best Bluestreak/Jazz, with a wonderfully dominant Bluestreak and cheerfully submissive Jazz. I so loved the concept that I was inspired to write this as a tiny gift. It's about the moment where Jazz and Bluestreak commit to each other.
Warnings: Unbeta'd so all mistakes are on me. Underlying D/S themes including collaring. Title from the following quote: "The question of sexual dominance can exist only in the nightmare of that soul which has armed itself, totally, against the possibility of the changing motion of conquest and surrender, which is love." ~ James Arthur Baldwin
Disclaimer: This is a piece of fiction. No harm was intended in the creation of this work. All rights belong to the original creators.
"I have something for you," Bluestreak murmurs against the back of Jazz's neck.
The saboteur shivers as warm air from Bluestreak's vents ghost over Jazz's sensitive plating. He reflexively arches his back, pressing even closer to Bluestreak's warm frame. They are lying entwined together on Jazz's berth, engines ticking in cool down. The air around them reeks of ozone and burned circuits, and Jazz is feeling pleasantly languorous.
"And what is that, love? A new toy? Ya know how I love your toys," Jazz says, feeling the familiar tingle of arousal in the pit of his belly at the thought. Bluestreak had already forced him through four overloads tonight; he wouldn't say no to a fifth.
"No. Um, not a toy. Sit up?"
Jazz twists the upper half of his frame in order to stare into Bluestreak's faceplates. They wear an anxious expression, matching the hesitant tone of his voice.
"All right, love. So, what is it? " he asks, stroking a soothing hand down Bluestreak's chestplate.
His lover shakes his head and pushes himself upright, plating clamping down in an obvious sign of disquiet. "No. I… I'd rather show you."
Jazz moves to a sitting position, his legs dangling over the edge of the berth. It's rare for Bluestreak to show any hesitation when they are in the berth together; Jazz is now completely intrigued. "Show and tell; I like it."
"Close your optics," Bluestreak instructs. Jazz has half a processor to say no; they aren't in the middle of a session, so he doesn't have to obey. Not that he does half the time anyway; the punishments are half the fun.
But the words are more of a question than a command, so Jazz's visor dims as he turns off his optics. The rest of his sensors are so finely tuned that he doesn't need his optics to tell him that Bluestreak is shifting in place, likely retrieving something from one of his subspace pockets. There is a soft chiming sound and then Bluestreak stills. His next shaky intake of air is loud around them, and Jazz takes a moment to wonder just what exactly it is Bluestreak is going to show him. Before he can speculate much, Bluestreak speaks.
"All right. Open them."
Jazz reboots his optics, and he tilts his head to the side to regard what Bluestreak is holding. It is a fine chain of dull silver, thin and flexible, swaying slightly as the length stretches from hand to hand.
"A collar," Bluestreak explains. "I made sure that there are no identifiable marks, and it's thin enough so that it shouldn't impede any movement. You don't have to wear it all the time; you can wear it beneath your plating, or only when we're in session. Or… or, you don't have to wear it at all, really. It's a stupid idea, maybe you should just forget I ever said anything…" Bluestreak says, the pacing of his words speeding up with his nervousness.
Jazz reaches out and lays his hands atop Bluestreak's. Bluestreak instantly silences, his optics wary as they study Jazz.
"Put it on, please," Jazz says, his vocalizer straining. He bends his head forward, and he feels a warm gust of air over the top of his helm as Bluestreak ex-ventilates quietly. Then Bluestreak's hands are around his neck, fastening the collar. It drops to lie against his throat, less a collar and more a necklace, but Jazz doesn't care to distinguish the two. It's a mark of ownership, a brand that states he is Bluestreak's and Bluestreak is his.
His head remains bent, the chain sliding across his plating with a small chirr of metal as he shivers.
"Thank you," Jazz says, whispers really, his spark unable to decide if it wants to spin in happiness or sink into the peaceful calm that only Bluestreak's attention can bring it.
"I'm glad you like it," Bluestreak says, the tone of his voice firming and losing its earlier hesitancy. Bluestreak's hand nudges up under Jazz's chin, grabbing and twisting the chain around Bluestreak's fist. The collar is tightened to a painful pinch, one of Bluestreak's knuckle joints pressing against the main energon cable in Jazz's throat. Bluestreak forces Jazz's helm back at an awkward angle, and he rises on his knees so that he can stare down into Jazz's visor.
"Well. You've earned the right to it. So let's see if you can earn the right to keep it," Bluestreak says with a hungry smirk.
End