Chapter Text
Jazz sipped at his drink as he relaxed at the bar. It had been a pretty good night; his newest song had been well-received by the audience, and there hadn’t been any fights in the crowd as the bar closed. He opened his comm pad and selected an app.
“Well well, look who’s trawling around on Sparkr.” Jazz looked up and smiled as Blaster sat down next to him with his own after-hours drink. “Looking for someone to warm your berth again tonight?” he asked.
Jazz grinned and shoved at Blaster playfully. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just lookin’,” he said. He scrolled past some of the profiles he’d seen before, looking for anything new. “Besides, I’ve met some really nice mechs on here.”
“Don’t tell me you’re using a hookup app to find a sparkmate.”
“It’s a dating app,” said Jazz, a little defensively. “You can use it to look for whatever you want.”
“And what is Jazz looking for?” Blaster said, craning his helm to see the screen of Jazz’s comm pad.
Jazz tilted the screen towards Blaster. “Just... someone who looks interestin’, that’s all.” He scrolled up again. “Like, look at this one. Iaconian, nice optics, works in retail, enjoys long walks on the skyway.”
“He is kinda pretty. I know you had a thing going with that noble a few vorns ago, and – hey!” Blaster exclaimed as Jazz swiped left to dismiss the mech’s profile picture. “I thought he looked nice.”
“Yeah, well, he was nice-lookin’, but he also sounded boring as slag. ‘Long walks on the skyway’... Booooring.” Jazz skimmed through a few more profiles and swiped left to dismiss all of them. “All of these – dull and done.”
Blaster laughed. “You’re more discriminating than I thought you were,” he said. He narrowed his optics at his friend for a moment. “So what are you looking for? Hookup or sparkmate?”
Jazz shrugged. “Both. Neither. Does it matter? I’m just looking for someone who’s good-lookin’, and fun, and who might be fun in the berth. If anything more comes outta that - bonus.”
Blaster finished his drink and clapped a hand on Jazz’s shoulder. “Well, good hunting, Jazz,” he said. “I gotta get going. See you tomorrow night?”
“You bet,” said Jazz. “Have a good one, Blaster.”
Jazz hesitated over the profile of an Altihexian who worked as a mechanic. In his profile picture, the mech was posing dramatically in front of a transport train, showing off his physique. Jazz shook his helm, laughing quietly, and swiped left. He was sure that some mechs just had no idea how ridiculous their profile photos made them seem.
The next profile made him pause. He looked like he might be a Praxian, based on the chevron visible in the close-up photo of the mech’s face with its chiselled features. That was different; most mechs at least took the pic far enough away to include their upper torso. This looked more like an identification card photo. If it was a Praxian, Jazz wished that the mech had included his door wings; Jazz had a shameless thing for Praxian door wings. The mech’s icy blue optics stared back at Jazz from his comm pad. His profile was as austere as his profile photo: he worked for the city, and enjoyed music and strategy games.
Jazz’s digit hesitated over his pad, and then he swiped right. Why not? he thought. This mech’s profile (the app said he went by the designation Prowl) was different; his stood out from the parade of mechs trying to make themselves look amazing. If anything, this mech almost seemed to be downplaying whatever he had to offer.
A moment later, his comm pad chimed. It’s a match! the app cheerfully displayed on the screen.
Jazz’s visor brightened. Apparently Prowl had thought Jazz looked interesting as well. Jazz opened the messaging tab and tapped in his standard message for when he matched with someone.
Hey Prowl, tell me what your idea of a perfect date is. Mine is drinks, conversation, and maybe a little more.
He closed down the app and stood up, suddenly aware of how late it had gotten. He slid his empty cube across the bar to the bartender, who was still cleaning up from the evening. “Thanks, Airstream,” he called, wishing the mech a good night.
***
Over the next few days, Prowl and Jazz chatted back and forth on the app. Prowl’s idea of a perfect date was similar to what Jazz had listed, although Prowl did add, That description was generic enough that almost anything would qualify.
Why do think I lead with that? That way, I can’t be accused of misleading anyone in case it doesn’t work out, Jazz replied.
Clever, was all Prowl said.
Getting Prowl to give up more information about himself was like straightening twisted cables. Jazz was relieved when Prowl finally offered a time, date and place for them to meet for the promised “drinks, conversation, and maybe more.”
The bar Prowl picked for their meetup was a bit of a drive for Jazz, but he didn’t mind. It was in a nicer area of town than where he lived, so he didn’t feel uneasy wandering around looking a bit lost. However, with Prowl’s directions he was able to find the bar without any trouble, and ended up arriving a bit early.
As soon as Jazz walked into the bar, though, he felt a little nervous. The clientele was more upscale than he was used to at the bars where he played: business mechs and a handful of nobles. And in one corner of the bar, a large table was filled with Enforcer mechs. All of them looked up at him when he walked in.
Trying to seem casual, Jazz ordered a glass of mid-grade, and took a seat at an empty table near the door. He scanned the bar, stealing glances at the Enforcers out of the corner of his visor. None of them looked familiar, but that didn’t mean that one (or more) of them hadn’t been an officer who’d given him a hassle in the past.
As the kliks passed, Jazz became more and more convinced that maybe this had been a bad idea. This just wasn’t his crowd. All he needed now was for one of the Enforcers to decide that he looked out of place, and decide to haul him outside for a closer look. Maybe he could finish his drink, duck out, and send an apology to Prowl.
“Is your designation Jazz?”
Startled, Jazz looked up, and his spark sank when he saw an Enforcer standing over his table: painted the classic black and white with the Iacon Enforcer emblems on his shoulders. Frag. Jazz swallowed the mouthful he’d just taken from his glass and nodded, trying not to appear nervous. “Yes, it is. What’s the problem, officer?”
“I am Prowl.” The Enforcer held out his hand.
Jazz peeled his optics away from the Enforcer insignia and refocused on the mech’s face. Prowl. Of course. The mech was even more good-looking in person than he was on his profile. In fact, Prowl was drop-dead gorgeous. Jazz’s hunch had been right: Prowl was a Praxian, and Jazz gaped for a moment at the magnificent door wings standing proudly out from the mech’s back.
Recovering himself quickly, Jazz laughed. He tried to rein in his relief that he wasn’t on the verge of being tossed out of the bar on his aft. “Prowl. Right. Hiya.” He held out his own hand and gripped Prowl’s, then gestured at the seat across from him. “Please, sit down.”
“Thank you.” Prowl gracefully folded himself into the chair, and nodded at the waiter who stopped by a moment later. “The usual, please.”
“Ah, so, I take it ya come here a lot?” Jazz asked, still trying to calm himself. Thankful for his visor, he still tried to keep his optics from drifting to the mech’s wings.
“We are very close to my precinct office,” Prowl replied. He inclined his helm towards the other Enforcer mechs in the corner table. “This establishment is rather popular with other officers as well.”
Jazz laughed slightly. “Yeah, I noticed them when I came in.” He glanced at Prowl’s Enforcer insignia again. “Ya didn’t mention that you’re an Enforcer.”
Prowl inclined his helm. “My apologies. Would that have changed your decision to meet me?”
Yes, thought Jazz, although now that he’d seen Prowl in person he had to admit that it would have been a bad decision to reject him based solely on his occupation. “No,” he said. “It’s just a... bit of a shock when a cop walks up to your table and already knows your name.”
Prowl thanked the waiter, who’d brought him his drink. He looked at Jazz evenly. “A guilty conscience, perhaps?” he said.
Great. Jazz did have a record, but he wasn’t about to admit all of the sordid details to Prowl right after meeting him. “Oh, you know,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Speeding. Busking without a permit. All the usual stuff that dumb young mechs get into.”
“You are not that young,” replied Prowl.
“Nah, most of my run-ins with the law were vorn ago,” Jazz said. That, at least, was true. He’d cleaned up his act significantly, although the sad truth was that any mech who lived on his side of the city had fairly regular contact with Enforcers, just because of where they lived, where they worked, and who their friends were.
“Busking,” said Prowl thoughtfully, switching the subject. “Do you still do that?”
Relieved to discuss something other than what he’d gotten into trouble for in the past, Jazz shook his helm. “Naw. I’ve got a steady gig now in a club on the north end of town.”
Over the next few groons, their conversation wandered from Jazz’s musical career, to music in general, to concerts that Prowl had attended recently, to a few amusing anecdotes from Prowl’s work. He’d done crowd control duty for some popular artists that had visited the city, and he got to meet some of the musicians personally. “They’re never like what you expect,” Prowl said. “For example, one of the nicest artists I’ve ever met was Claxon – you know, the lead singer of that noise band Pandemonium – that toured here four deca-cycles ago?”
“You got to meet Claxon?” Jazz practically bounced in his seat. “I love Pandemonium! I have all of their albums!” He finished his drink and slammed it back down onto the table a little harder than he meant to. “I am so jealous of you right now I don’t know what to do with myself.”
Prowl laughed and finished his drink as well. “Like I said, he was quite nice. I didn’t expect an artist whose music consists solely of screams and sirens to be such a pleasant person to be around.”
“Hey now, it’s not all just screams and sirens,” said Jazz. “That’s just their biggest hit.”
“If you say so.” Prowl tapped his digits on his glass thoughtfully, and Jazz saw him glance towards the table of other Enforcers. “Jazz, we discussed drinks, which we’ve accomplished, and conversation, which has been excellent. Would you be interested in... something more to close out the evening?”
Jazz smiled. “What exactly did you have in mind?” he asked. Prowl was really good-looking, intelligent, had a dry wit, and seemed pretty nice on top of everything. Besides... Jazz smiled to himself. Blaster would never believe that Jazz had fragged a cop.
Prowl extended a hand across the table, palm up. “Would you like to go back to my place? It’s not far from here.”
Score. “I thought you’d never ask.” Jazz put his hand in Prowl’s.
Smiling, Prowl stood up from the table, pulling Jazz with him. He cleared their bill, paying for Jazz’s drinks as well. As they turned to go, Jazz noticed that Prowl stole another look at the table of Enforcers before they walked out into the cool night air.
“So, Prowl,” Jazz said, walking beside the Praxian. Primus, he couldn’t wait to get his hands on those door wings. “You kept looking at that table of cops in the corner. Friends of yours?”
“Coworkers,” said Prowl flatly. He glanced down at Jazz – slag, he was way taller than he’d looked when sitting! – and added, "Actually, they are fellow officers in my detachment.”
“Worried that they might make trouble for ya, meetin’ a strange mech at a bar?” Jazz said teasingly, bumping into Prowl’s side.
Prowl didn’t respond for a moment, so Jazz looked back up at him, worried that he’d said something wrong. Finally, Prowl said, “I will be perfectly honest with you, since you are coming back to my place, and likely to my berth.”
Jazz felt a bit of disquiet. After all, he had not been perfectly honest with Prowl regarding his record. However, before he could say anything, the Enforcer continued. “My fellow officers have taken it upon themselves to have more than a passing interest in my love life.” Prowl glanced down at Jazz again, then back up to watch where he was walking. “If I do not demonstrate that I have had some kind of... relations within the past few vorn, they begin teasing me, relentlessly.”
“Well, that’s slag,” said Jazz, feeling indignant on Prowl’s behalf. “It’s none of their business who you’re fragging.”
Prowl’s door wings twitched; Jazz was not sure if it was in embarrassment or amusement. “Yes. Quite. That doesn’t stop them from taking an interest.” Prowl shrugged. “So, when the enquiries and teasing become too intense, I reactivate my profile on Sparkr to find someone to speak to for the evening. I invite them to that bar, so that I can be seen with my date, and – more importantly – I can be seen leaving with my date. After that, the teasing stops for a few vorn until they figure out that I am still unattached.”
Jazz laughed. “That’s actually a little brilliant. So – uh – do you always invite these dates back to your place?”
Prowl stopped walking and put a hand on Jazz’s shoulder. “No, and that’s why I am even bothering to tell you this.” He waited until Jazz was looking up at him before continuing. “Normally, I invite my date to a diner down the street where we can finish up our conversation, and then I bid them good night. But as far as my coworkers know, I participated in a socially-acceptable amount of fragging that evening. You,” Prowl added, putting a digit under Jazz’s chin and tilting it up slightly. “You are the first mech I’ve taken home in over three hundred vorn.”
Even though he still felt guilty about not telling Prowl everything about his record, Jazz couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face plates, and he laughed again. “You sure know how to make a mech feel special, Prowl.”
“I enjoyed our conversation. You are quick-witted, you have a good sense of humour, and you can hold up your end of an intelligent conversation. Plus,” Prowl said, smoothing a thumb across Jazz’s lips, “you are delicious to look at.” His vocaliser dropped to a husky whisper. “Do you taste as good as you look?”
Jazz froze as Prowl tipped his helm up again and pressed his lips to Jazz’s. Prowl tasted like the high-grade he’d been drinking. Jazz parted his lips slightly, and Prowl took that as an invitation to slide his glossa into Jazz’s mouth to dance with his.
It was one of the best kisses that Jazz had had in ages. He leaned into Prowl, bringing his hands around Prowl’s back to rest gently on the backs of Prowl’s door wings. The Praxian bit gently into Jazz’s lip at the soft touch, and Jazz heard a very quiet whimper escape Prowl’s vocalizer.
After a few kliks they parted, and Jazz released the air he’d been holding in a long exvent. He realized that both of their fans were venting steam into the cool air around them. “So, uh, how far away did you say your place was?” Jazz said with a grin.
It turned out to not be far at all, and by the time Prowl let them into his apartment their hands were roving all over each other. Digits pressed into seams and plucked at the tense wires underneath, and lips smeared across neck cords and up jaw lines.
Prowl kicked the door shut behind them, and murmured “Berth?” into Jazz’s mouth.
“Yes,” gasped Jazz, clutching at Prowl’s shoulders. He squeaked as the larger Praxian picked him up in his arms and marched him into the next room, unceremoniously depositing him onto a large berth and climbing in after him.
Prowl kissed his way down Jazz’s frame, lavishing attention on the seams on his chest plates, the black armor of his abdomen, and then the heated metal just above his interface array. Jazz gritted his dentae and tried to keep himself under control. How embarrassing would it be to have his interface array fly open the instant Prowl touched it?
Thankfully, Prowl stopped there, and Jazz lifted his helm to look down at Prowl. The Praxian’s ice blue optics stared back at him, and Jazz could see those fantastic door wings waving gently just beyond. “What is your preference, Jazz?” Prowl asked, planting a kiss on the inside of Jazz’s thigh. Slag, everything the mech did increased Jazz’s core temperature. “Spike or valve?”
Jazz almost laughed, but managed to not sob I don’t care, just frag me already! “Either one,” he said, trying but failing to keep his vocalizer steady. “Either one would be wonderful.”
Prowl smiled, and nuzzled the panel covering Jazz’s interface array. This time, Jazz could not stop it from opening, and he moaned as he felt his spike pressurizing as soon as the cover was clear. He leaned back on the berth again, covering his visor with an arm and biting his lip.
“Either one,” murmured Prowl, pressing his lips against the lips of Jazz’s valve. Jazz gasped as Prowl’s glossa dipped between his folds, which were already swollen and damp from the anticipation that had built as they had made their way back to Prowl’s apartment. The fluttering touches skimmed around the rim of his valve before Prowl traced meaningless glyphs over and through his wet folds.
When Prowl lifted his helm slightly to gently mouth the base of Jazz’s spike, Jazz moaned incoherently. Prowl flicked Jazz’s anterior node with the tip of his glossa, and Jazz bucked up against Prowl’s mouth, clamping his knees around Prowl’s helm. “Primus, Prowl!” Jazz huffed.
In response, Prowl redoubled his efforts, and Jazz felt his charge rising. Slag, does this ever feel good, he thought. He cried out softly as Prowl flicked his node again, and he arched his back, trying to push himself against Prowl’s mouth. He was sure that if Prowl did that one more time, Jazz would tip over into an overload. “Prowl, I think...” The rest of his thought vaporized into incoherency as the Praxian raked his digits down Jazz’s inner thighs.
Suddenly, the warmth between his thighs shifted, and Prowl began licking and nibbling his way back up Jazz’s frame. As soon as Jazz could reach Prowl’s wings, he pressed his hands onto their surface, delighting in the shudders his touch sent through them.
Prowl hummed at the light strokes of Jazz’s digits, and he nipped gently at Jazz’s chin. “You are so expressive,” he whispered. “I love that.”
“I aim to please,” Jazz said with a smile, drawing his digits up the bottom edge of the wings again. He parted his thighs as Prowl shifted over him, waiting impatiently for Prowl’s spike.
So Jazz made a questioning noise when Prowl continued to slide his frame upwards, and Prowl nudged Jazz’s thighs closer together. Jazz felt Prowl’s spike slide against his valve, and then felt an incredible heat as Prowl’s valve slid up along Jazz’s spike, pressing it between Prowl’s valve and Jazz’s pelvis. Finally, Jazz groaned in happy disbelief as Prowl slowly slid back down onto Jazz’s spike, enveloping it bit by bit in wet, welcoming warmth.
“Oh, frag me,” moaned Jazz, putting a hand on one of Prowl’s hips, and wrapping his other hand around Prowl’s spike, jutting up between them proudly. Slag, he has an amazing spike, too, Jazz thought. I must be dreaming. This is all too good.
Prowl lifted his hips once before sliding back down onto Jazz’s spike again. “I believe that’s what I am doing,” he said with an amused glint in his optics. Although Prowl’s vocalizer was steady, Jazz noted that the Enforcer’s fans were running at full.
Lifting himself off of Jazz’s spike again, Prowl dragged his digits down the racer’s chest. Jazz rolled his hips up, meeting Prowl’s as he slid back down. Looking up at the Praxian, Jazz shivered at the sight of this gorgeous mech riding his spike. Prowl tilted his helm back, and Jazz couldn’t help reaching up to run both of his hands over the surfaces of those beautiful door wings that were spread wide over him.
“This is... amazing,” gasped Jazz, trying to get his words out when he could. Every time that Prowl sunk down on his spike, the mech’s internal calipers rippled, gripping Jazz’s spike in an otherworldly sensation. Jazz found that in those moments his vocaliser simply wouldn’t work. “You are... so... fragging hot... Prowl!” The Praxian’s designation erupted from Jazz in a burst of static.
It was as if that is what Prowl needed to hear. The Praxian threw his helm back again, his engine roaring as his frame convulsed, his valve gripping Jazz’s spike tightly as he overloaded. Jazz groaned as the rippling sensation pushed him over the edge. The look on Prowl’s gorgeous features and the trembling white door wings hanging above him sent him into a delirious overload, spurting fluid deep into Prowl’s valve.
Jazz came back to his senses to feel Prowl kissing him gently, his valve still gripping Jazz’s spike in the last tremors of his overload. Onlining his visor, Jazz smiled up at Prowl and kissed him back. “That was... you were... fantastic,” Jazz sighed.
Prowl shifted, sliding off of Jazz’s spike and settled in next to Jazz. He gathered Jazz’s frame against his, curling around Jazz and tangling their legs together. “No one has ever said that to me,” Prowl said quietly, nuzzling Jazz’s helm.
“What, that you were fantastic?” asked Jazz.
“No, that I’m hot,” Prowl said. Jazz pulled his helm back to look at Prowl, who had a half smile on his lips. “I suppose... it might come from being dedicated to my work, and not having very many close friends or lovers.” He ran his hand down Jazz’s side to his hip, pulling him in closer. “I’ve been called lots of things, like severe and haughty and... cold...” He laughed at the inadvertent pun. “But never hot.”
“But...but just look at you!” Jazz sputtered, waving a hand across Prowl’s frame, taking in his face and his shoulders and door wings and hips. “How could all this not be hot? And when you add in how you use your equipment...” Jazz’s engine gave a rev. “Mech, if you take in the whole package, you are slagging irresistible.”
Prowl flushed slightly and laughed, kissing Jazz again. “Thank you,” he said. He nestled his head next to Jazz’s. “You are welcome to spend the night, if you wish. My next shift does not start until later tomorrow afternoon.”
“I think I’ll take you up on that offer,” said Jazz, yawning. “It’s a long drive back home.” He brushed a hand up the one door wing of Prowl’s that he could touch, smiling as it shivered. “But do we need to recharge so soon?” he asked in a low voice.
“Not necessarily,” said Prowl, running a hand up Jazz’s frame to his chest. “What did you have in mind?”