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Jazz onlines with a groan, frame throbbing. He’s hot, and not in the fun way, systems burning, plating heavy and tangled in blankets. Ugh. He fumbles to try to sit up, off balance with the still new weight of carrying and swamped in the ridiculous amount of fluffy berth pillows and covers.
Four quartex into carrying means this happens more often than not, onlining to a processor fuzzy and buzzing with noise, frame burning, optics blurry, and HUD cheerily pinging him with alerts that he needs to cool down like Jazz isn’t well aware of that.
Gah. Jazz finally struggles out of the blankets and into an awkward upright position, servos bracing him against the weight of blankets and pillows.
There are so many pillows — maybe that’s why he’s overheating — and they’ve just kept increasing these past few decaorns, courtesy of Prowl being a massive worrier. Mm. Prowl .
Prowl’s frame is pressed up against his hip and thigh, Prowl was all draped over him when they passed out last night, only dislodged when Jazz woke up, and that’s a memory Jazz is happy to relive, charge ramping up higher at the imagining.
Ohhhh. He’s charged up. That’s the problem. Oh, he is so charged up, frag him, Prowl should be doing that. Fragging him. Yeah. Jazz is definitely in the mood for that. Carrier coding, that’s what this is, seeking out the sire, seeking out a fresh flood of nanites for the sparkling, and Jazz knows exactly how he’s gonna get them.
“Prowl,” Jazz hisses, shoving pillows behind Prowl before pushing his lover back onto them and tossing a leg over those fantastic thighs. Jazz wants to ride those thighs, grind off on one, rock his node against it, yeah, yeah… oh, pressure, even with his panel between them, feels so good, and if Prowl could just start moving himself, maybe press that thigh up and get some friction, oh, that’d be perfect, exactly what Jazz needs.
Prowl isn’t moving, isn’t waking up, even as Jazz rubs off on him behind his panel, passed out like a slagging rock, and Jazz pokes a doorwing experimentally, reluctantly pulling back to hover over him.
“Prowl?” Jazz asks, maybe a little needily, so sue him.
Prowl, traitorous abandoner of his mate in his time of need that he is, doesn’t respond.
Jazz pokes his cheek, and then flicks his chevron, charge settled low between his legs and burning through his circuits and even asleep when Jazz really needs him not to be, Prowl is handsome, harsh features soft in recharge, helm shifting slightly to follow Jazz’s servo.
“Prowl .”
Nothing. A lil bit of servo nuzzling, but as for waking up, a whole lot of nothing.
“ Prowl.” Hey, whaddaya expect. Nothing.
Gah. Jazz rolls over and off of Prowl, flops right back against him to slide his servo down, grinding his palm against his closed panel.
It feels so slagging good, circuits lighting up and lubricant beginning to pool behind his panels, and Jazz abandons any hope of falling back into recharge to pop his panels with a half muffled moan of relief.
He’s half hoping Prowl’s gonna rouse at that, but no such luck, and the gush of lubricants that begins to spill down his thighs at the release of his panel, the spike of charge, even without Prowl’s spike to spread himself on, are more immediately pressing right now.
Jazz trails his digits around the rim of his valve, shifting back to press against Prowl’s big warm frame. If Prowl was awake, Jazz’d rub his aft back on Prowl’s pelvis, maybe turn to grind off on a thigh like he’d been trying to do, moan— mm, yeah, Jazz thinks, calipers clenching down on his two digits, sending a throb of charge rippling through his frame, and Jazz rides it, rides his digits, presses in another to get that good stretch, imagines rubbing off on Prowl’s thighs, moaning half theatrically, half desperately, maybe Prowl helping out a little as Jazz puts on a show for him, that starstruck expression he always gets when his helm is between Jazz’s thighs or when Jazz is riding him.
And that pretty look on his face would be melding perfectly with the digits twisting in the wires of Jazz’s hip, grasping onto him like Prowl’s going to fall despite being beneath Jazz, with the thumb stroking around Jazz’s node, never quite getting where Jazz needs it, and Jazz mimics the gesture, digits clumsy, charge rising, belly tight with anticipation.
He’s whimpering at this point, squirming around in tight motions, making the small, desperate noises Prowl adores, loves to drag out of him, digits slick and messy with lubricant, humping his hand, and Prowl’d be teasing him at this point, optics shining, smugly grazing over Jazz’s anterior node without ever making more than glancing contact, but hey, Jazz doesn’t hafta do that, not bound by what gets Prowl off with Prowl asleep.
Jazz circles his node, braces himself, and finally presses down on it, nearly sobbing at the touch, so good, thassit, Prowler, please, and Jazz tips over the edge groaning Prowl’s name.
The tension finally ebbs from Jazz’s frame, and he lies there for a moment, vision smeary as his optics reset, systems cooling down. He feels better, that’s for sure, not quite the strung out, strutless puddle of pleasure after a particularly good overload or four, but quite content with himself, frankly, plating buzzing.
Jazz rolls over, hoping to see Prowl awake next to him, optics intent on him, servos preparing to grab and ravish his oh so willing captive.
It’s not like Jazz didn’t make enough noise, damnit.
Prowl’s optics are dim, and Jazz gets it now, it’s because he does not truly love Jazz, because Jazz is all alone in this miserable life, and okay, look, that’s hyperbole, that’s slag Jazz says to wind Prowler up when he’s too focused on his work to pay attention to Jazz, dramatic, servo on spark declarations until Prowl rolls his optics fondly and Jazz starts implying he’ll find someone else to fill the hole in Jazz’s spark that Prowl not loving him left, and maybe some other holes as well, although no one could ever truly fill Jazz the way Prowl does, and around that point is when Prowl growls in his cute lil possessive way and grabs Jazz’s hips, fills Jazz up real nice, and so yeah, just drama, but Jazz whimpers a little at the thought, more needy than he’d like to admit, because damn he would like someone to touch him right now.
“I literally just came,” Jazz mumbles to no one in particular, maybe his own frame for being annoying, possibly just the coding or whoever came up with the idea of carrier coding, possibly Primus, then, definitely not Prowl, though, cuz Prowl is asleep.
Jazz gives up on the stray thought of rejoining his mate, slides a tentative servo between his legs to check things out, a lil recon mission, collecting important data, hard at work. Heh. Hard.
Every movement Jazz makes, even just the little exploratory touches, sends ripples of charge through his frame, overload doing nothing but ramping up his sensitivity, calipers clenching on nothing, lubricant running down his thighs.
Jazz fixes one of those problems by slipping two, then three digits into his valve, scissoring them in an attempt to mimic the stretch of a spike, preferably Prowl’s, though Jazz is getting increasingly less picky.
Digits aren’t doing slag at this point, though, only serving to feel like a mockery, and not in the fun way with Prowl, the hot way, the way where Jazz just feels slippery and unsatisfied, okay, moving on, new plan.
Jazz has always been good at improvising anyway, it’s in the name, rolls off the berth so ungracefully he’s almost glad Prowl’s not awake to see it.
He moves awkwardly on his clenched together knees, because his attempt at walking just got a trail of lubricant on the floors and very shaky struts, that’s just gross, so Jazz shuffles forward, servos fumbling til he finds the box labelled real neat in Prowl’s servowriting with “Evening activities,” sheesh, what a poser am I right, sounds like either Dracula behavior, and Jazz has read the original novel, and beyond the biting, which really only gets steam behind it in later vampire incarnations, not so sexy.
And if it doesn’t sound like a human doing an accent in plastic dentae, “evening activities” sounds like, Jazz doesn’t know, bridge club. A card game. Not what it actually is, which is scribbled beneath the crisp label in Jazz’s own scrawl as “frag toys <3.”
Jazz had managed to not think about his charge for a bit there, huddled on the floor and going off on mental tangents about Dracula, but reading the label brings it right back to the forefront of his processor, and Jazz barely manages to get the lid open.
He roots through it aimlessly, searching by feel more than sight, takes only a few seconds to wrap his servo around the false spike and draw it out.
It’s modeled after Prowl’s own spike, which had been a fun conversation with WheelJack, and an even more fun conversation with Prowl later when he’d found it and asked. Oh, Prowl.
Even just moving off the berth to the floor, even just being that much away from the warmth of Prowl’s frame, the steady hum of his field, makes him wanna cry with the feeling of abandonment, carrier protocols crying out for his mate, and and Jazz might be the first mech in the world to feel tears of misery prickle at his optics while holding a false spike.
Get it together, mech, Prowl is right there. Jazz gives himself a count of five before hauling himself up onto his pedes and collapsing back on the berth, pressing himself into Prowl’s chest with a muffled sob.
Prowl still doesn’t wake up, and okay, it’s not on Jazz, not him ignoring Jazz or hating him, he’s unconscious, he doesn’t know, but Jazz still gasps, spark aching and not at all willing to listen to his processor.
Being sparked up sucks, sometime, frame and spark betraying him, and Jazz trembles around another pang of simultaneous loneliness and horniness. Greaaat. He can solve the second problem!
Jazz leans back, presses the head of the fake spike against his valve, rubs against it, stimulating a long run of sensory nodes with a moan, not enough, not what Jazz needs, but something to at least tide him over.
Up on his knees now, spike angled towards him, and Jazz sinks down and forward, lets it spread him open, better than servos could except maybe Prowl’s servos, better than nothing, barely, and Jazz clamps his servos tight and stable so he can rock against it, wanting deep, slow thrusts, Prowler spread over him, oh, there we go, Jazz’s ceiling node pulses, biolights probably flaring wildly, and Prowl would call them pretty, maybe, fragging Jazz thoroughly, tracing the rim of his valve where they connect, murmuring soft words of praise into Jazz’s neck between harsh exvents as he tried to pretend he wasn’t just as desperate as Jazz was, and Jazz groans, valve throbbing with need and spark throbbing with it too, with awful miserable thoughts of all alone, and Jazz shakes with it, finally closing his panels over the spike in a last ditch attempt to get it deeper, fill Jazz up enough, tears dripping down his face with frustration and want.
Prowl is still asleep. Jazz gives in, gives himself permission to let out a single, unmuffled sob.
And then, joy of joys, prayers answered, hope in the world and in good things happening, Prowl finally, finally groans, optics flickering, field spreading out, Prowl wakes up.
It’s basically like witnessing a miracle, and Jazz isn’t saying that just because he’s so super in love with Prowl.
“Baby?” Jazz whispers, suddenly afraid to be too loud in the fear that it’ll, he doesn’t know, startle Prowl back into deep recharge or something, which is not remotely how it would work, but Jazz has had a tough time lately! He deserves to be irrational.
Prowl, awake ( hallelujah!) mech that he is, focuses on Jazz, urgent and horny next to him.
“Jazz,” he murmurs, “Are you alright? I felt…”
Prowl touches his sparkchamber, looks to Jazz, the bond pulsing with worry and a Prowl sent buzz of comfort.
Jazz makes an incoherent whimper, unable to get his thoughts straight enough to explain, to beg.
“Just… hhh. Needed. Needed you.”
Prowl moves to him then, lips curving into a smile, tired optics shining with such unadulterated love and affection and adoration that Jazz’s spark trembles and the newspark in his chest practically sings with joy and Jazz overloads hard, calipers squeezing downs, back arching, digits clenching erratically as he rides out the wave of charge.
Prowl laughs softly, like bells and music and perfect, reaches up and wraps an arm around him, and yes, oh Primus yes, that’s exactly what Jazz needs right up until… Prowl pulls him down against Prowl’s chest, nuzzling his helm, clearly seeking cuddles. No! Noo!!
Jazz frantically squirmed in Prowl’s arms. His very heavy, very warm arms— seriously, how were they so heavy, and oh, Jazz does like Prowl’s bulk when he’s pinning him down, most of the time, when he’s pinning him to frag, not for cuddles.
He likes cuddles too! He likes them a lot, actually, just maybe, possibly, not when his carrying coding is screaming for his mate and his array is lighting up and if he doesn’t get Prowl servos on him, Prowl’s spike in him, he’s prolly gonna die, and Jazz makes a pathetic noise that attempts to convey all of that simultaneously.
Nothing. Prowl is missing the memo. Prowl has been missing a lot of memos lately, just in this morning, this is not good Second In Command behavior, tsk tsk, for shame, he’s neglecting his duties, aka his mate, aka Jazz, aka Prowler better get better about this whole situation here or Jazz is gonna court martial him for dereliction of duty.
Jazz lets out a deeply peeved grumble that attempts to cover all of that while being cuddled very thoroughly and not being fragged thoroughly, and thus being kinda lacking at ability for complex vocalizations.
Prowl makes a contented little sigh in response, and nuzzles Jazz.
Lips, soft along Jazz’s neck, so tender Jazz mighta just given up on the interface, melted into his Prowler and been content for it, except in the process of the nuzzling, Prowl is shifting his hips just slightly against Jazz’s own hips to send charge flaring to Jazz’s oversensitive valve, squeezing uselessly around the false spike, and then , just when it starts to get interesting, proceeds to stop moving. Leaving Jazz worse off than before, cuz he can’t even jerk off now!
“Mmm,” Prowl murmurs affectionately, “My love.”
Jazz considers stabbing him.
Prowl does this horrible little roll of his plating, shifting them closer, trying to get comfortable, and it’s friction, barely, and seriously, who would blame him? If Jazz just started stabbing?
Jazz could just be like, yeah, Optimus, you gotta understand, carrier coding was going haywire, and Prowl was asleep, and then when he woke up he just cuddled me, and seriously, just cuddles, I wasn’t exactly being subtle about what I’d like, and c’mon, what kinda mech could resist this, and at this point in the fantasy, Jazz pops his panel and Optimus nods agreeably, goes, yes, Jazz, your valve is fantastic, truly amazing, maybe gives Jazz that look that makes him feel simultaneously blasphemous and holy in the way only a Prime can, yeah, see Prowl, you're replaceable in Jazz’s fantasies, he can find a new sire— except even in grumpy imagining, the thought sends a twinge through Jazz’s spark, and he presses closer to Prowl’s warm frame, seeking out closeness.
Prowl’s engine rumbles, arms tightening in recognition of that much at least, good job, gold star for the effort, and fuck, there’s the blaze of charge back in Jazz’s system, flaring through his circuits, humming in everywhere he and Prowl make contact, and Prowl isn’t doing anything, whyyy.
Has Jazz perhaps pissed off some cosmic deity? Probably. Has he been bad? Happily, and more recently in full hopes of getting ‘punished’ for his misdeeds in ways Jazz quips are closer to fun ishments and Prowl winces and either drops his helm into his servos in mock despair at Jazz’s antics, or proceeds to show Jazz exactly how fun they can be.
So yeah, Jazz has been bad, he’s been real naughty, but he doesn’t deserve this.
Prowl loosens up a bit, slides a thigh between Jazz’s legs, and Jazz enthusiastically thrusts against him, false spike shifting in his valve, pressing up against his nodes, his panel, and Jazz shudders, tries again to break free of Prowl’s grip to no avail.
As he helplessly wriggles, his interface panel brushes against Prowl’s thigh and a light moan uncontrollably leaves him, frame just doing its own thing now, apparently.
Prowl’s arms around him loosened fully, field humming with concern.
“Love? Is the newspark hurting? Are you al—“
Prowl starts to sit up, thigh pressing against Jazz’s burning panel, false spike grinding and Jazz whimpers with frustration and want.
“ Oh ,” Prowl says, voice still rough with tiredness, not just tiredness now though.
“ Yeah,” Jazz replies, and he sees it finally all click in Prowl’s optics, there we go, a little slow but Prowl got there eventually, good on him, now can we please, please, please actually get somewhere.
Prowl’s optics go downright predatory, and Jazz makes another little whimper as Prowl leans in.
“Did somebody wake up with morning charge?”
“ Prowl,” Jazz gasps out, “need you.”
“Need me to what?”
Gah! Jazz jerks his hips against Prowl’s thigh, friction going nowhere, node throbbing behind his panel, false spike wholly inadequate.
“Frag me!”
“Oh. Well, yes, of course.”
Prowl rolls away, what the fuck, misery and hell on Earth, love is a lie and joy a falsehood spread thinly over darkness, and then Prowl slides to hold Jazz behind, and never mind all that, brief slide into the miseries, he’s out now, Prowl’s lips are on Jazz’s neck.
“You know,” Prowl muses, “You could’ve just said .” Clearly somebody missed Jazz’s multiple attempts, which we’ve been over that he missed, like a total loser. That Jazz definitely doesn’t miss sometimes even when he’s right next to him, just in recharge, as today showed
Prowl reaches out to cup Jazz’s panel and squeeze, cutting off whatever incredibly cutting comeback Jazz was totally about to say, and all Jazz can do is moan and rock into Prowl’s servo, little jolts of charge flashing up his circuits. He can barely move, Prowl is holding him so tight, and it’s a new type of torture, trapped with Prowl’s field smug and aware all around him.
“ Prowl.”
Jazz can feel Prowl smile against his neck, and then gasps as he feels Prowl’s hips pushing into him, Prowl’s own panel hot, grinding up against him.
“Have I been neglecting you?”
Jazz nods jerkily, afraid that if he opens his mouth, he’ll just start whimpering again, begging Prowl, and all Prowl will do when he gets like this is prolong Jazz’s misery, keep him teetering on the edge.
“How terribly remiss of me. Let me make it up to you?”
Jazz tries to transform his panel away, get Prowl’s clever digits in his valve, but Prowl’s servo tightens, and Jazz’s panel is trapped, unable to move, much like the rest of him, and Jazz nearly screams.
“Please!”
“Not quite. What are the magic words?”
“Somethin’ like ‘bet ‘Hide would just love to pound me into a berth right now til I’m sobbing, an’ he wouldn’t make me beg for it first,’ ” Jazz growls, and it’s frankly hysterical how quick Prowl snarls, field crackling with possessiveness.
Prowl’s servos yank away from Jazz’s panel, finally snapping back open with a tiny jolt of relief and much bigger jolt of charge at the expose to cold air again and gush of lubricants, servos settling instead on Jazz’s hips to grab tightly, definitely leaving servoprints, but do you hear Jazz complaining? No sirree, any noises falling out of Jazz’s vocalizer are focused entirely in yeses and pleases and hurry ups, any complaints to be registered entirely about how Prowl isn’t doing enough.
Prowl rolls them back to face to face and pulls Jazz up against him, engine roaring, optics hard.
“Like pit,” Prowl says sharply. Jazz flashes him a grin halfway between sheepishness and success.
Prowl bares his dentae at Jazz, doorwings flared, waves of possessiveness and desire roiling off him, bond caught in a feedback loop of the need for closeness.
Jazz is caught between the urge to really rile Prowler up about it, get fragged into the berth until he’s a squirming, oversensitive mess, and just roll over right then and beg Prowl to frag him. The first impulse wins, mostly cuz Jazz is still kinda peeved about having to take things in his own servos while Prowl slept peacefully, and he sits up, reaches for Prowl.
Prowl is more than happy to oblige him now, one servo shifting to his aft, great, fantastic place for it to be, while the other slides to Jazz’s valve, stops.
Always with the stopping. Jazz would like some nice fluid motion, some nice fluids of exactly the variety that implies, but nooo, Prowl’s start and stop, start and stop, Prowl is tapping the false spike in a way that sends vibrations, oh, oh, that’s the good stuff.
“What’s this?” Prowl slides two digits into Jazz’s valve to grasp the false spike, and Jazz squeaks at the sudden stretch, squirms when Prowl pulls it out part way before easing it back into Jazz, fragging him with it slowly.
“Told youuuuu. Needed you. You were. Gahhh, Prowler, yesss, do that again, you were asleep, had to, to burn off that charge somehow.” Jazz thrusts his hips, tries to get more, but Prowl controls the pace, digit circling Jazz’s node as he frags him with the false spike, optics focused on the squelch of lubricant, the way Jazz’s valve shifts and flutters around the false spike, biolights flashing needily.
“You’re so beautiful,” Prowl says roughly, drinking in the sight of Jazz moaning for him, watching Jazz with such intensity that Jazz nearly comes right there, not even so much from the stimulation as from Prowl looking at him like that, and then Prowl twists his wrist just right, digit rubbing his swollen anterior node, and Jazz does overload, gasping out Prowl’s designation, unable to catch his vents as Prowl keeps pounding the false spike into him, keeps rubbing Jazz’s throbbing node, and Jazz can’t even get the name out through static laden moans, whimpering “Prow— oh, Prow— yesss.”
“ Having trouble with my name? I won’t lie, it’s adorable.”
When Prowl’s digits on his node and the movement of the false spike becomes genuinely over sensitively uncomfortable, rather than just a delicious roar of charge, Jazz hisses, makes a face and starts to pull away, but Prow’s already on it, servo returning to the berth and slipping the false spike out of Jazz’s valve with a wet squelch that Jazz winces at.
Prowl leans back to hover worriedly over Jazz, field blanketing him with anxious need to make sure Jazz is okay. It’s… really sweet, honestly, and Jazz’s spark floods with warmth.
“Are you alright? I didn’t hurt you? Didn’t go too far?”
Jazz smiles crookedly up at his Prowler, traces a seam of Prowl’s sparkchamber plating with utter affection.
“Yeah, I’m good, baby. You were perfect, ‘xcept maybe the bit in the beginning when you wouldn’t wake up. Just a li’l oversensitive there at the end. I’ll be good in a sec.”
Prowl nods but doesn’t come any closer, servos hesitant, and Jazz sits up, shuddering a little bit at how his valve clenches down, feeling horribly empty now with the false spike gone, carrier protocols already back online, overloads all well and good, but what his frame needs right now is transfluid, his mate filling him up.
This is stupid. Buuuuut with Prowl awake, it’s way more manageable. And pretty fun. Very fun.
“Carrying code?” Prowl asks, given he’s able to put two and two together to come up with a very reasonable sounding four, and Jazz nods ruefully, but not too regretfully. It’s hardly a struggle.
“Should I comm Ratchet…?” Prowl looks very concerned, and Jazz snickers, amused by the idea of Prowl calling Ratch in a panic to say that Jazz was hornier than a cyberrabbit, what should he do?”
“Nah. He’ll just say the same thing that I’m saying now, which is writing me a prescription for my tragic deficiency in vitamin PS.”
“PS?”
Jazz grins. “Prowler spike. I’ve got a horrible lack of it, baby, and whaddaya know, you’re the only one who can stick it in me! It’s medicinal, baby, you gotta.”
Prowl fights back a smile. “It’s about to be administered orally if you don’t stop talking about my spike like that.”
“Mm, as much as I’d like that, I’m afraid there’s only one injection site.” Jazz idly trails his digits over his thigh, hip, then drags them through the slick mess of his valve, tracing the rim and spreading lubricant down his leg. He’s still a little twitchy, but not so much that he can’t tease Prowl. Jazz’d probably hafta be dead for that.
Jazz oh so casually flickers his vision up to see how Prowl’s reaction, and oh, wouldja look at that, Prowl’s optics are laser focused on each movement, so intent Jazz feels almost self-conscious.
“I hate this metaphor,” Prowl says, a beat late, breaking his optics away from between Jazz’s legs at last, swallowing hard.
“Aw, I kinda like it. I think it’s charming.”
Prowl leans forward, servos inching closer, berth shifting beneath him as Prowl settles back onto it, and Jazz can feel the warmth of his frame radiating out, soaking into Jazz. Jazz smiles at his Prowler, and Prowl smiles back.
“I think everything you do is charming,” Prowl murmurs, stroking Jazz’s cheek. Jazz tries to grin up at him, tries to be cheeky and bright, do what the coding is aching for, tease until Prowler flips him over and pounds him into the berth, stuffs him full of transfluid until Jazz is finally sated, but instead such a throb of love for Prowl overtakes him that he offlines his optics, leans into Prowl’s servo, melts into his Prowler.
“Baby.”
“How are you feeling, love.”
“Like I said. Just need you.”
Prowl strokes his cheek, and Jazz pulls him easily down into a kiss, slow and deep, Prowl’s glossa curling against his before pulling back, just a tiny bit. Jazz whimpers at the loss of contact, groans more when Prowl pulls away properly to stand back.
“Prowlerrrrr.”
Start. And. Stop.
“You’re overheating, love. Let me get you some coolant?”
“Seriously? Noo. I’m fine.” Jazz attempts to stand up, nearly falls over as his gyroscopes fail, and has to hold onto the berth for support. Kudos to the berth, really, always there for him. It’s a great berth. Jazz is really glad he gets to recharge on it every night. With Prowl, even! That’s a very important factor to the greatness.
“Jazz?”
“Kay, fine.”
Jazz graciously allows Prowl to rest him on the berth, though he protests when Prowl tries to bury him in blankets again, the slagger, just cuz Prowl prefers him flattened out into a Jazz pancake doesn’t mean Jazz is gonna let him get away with it this time, and Prowl backs off.
Jazz lazily watches from the berth as Prowl fills a cube, returning to him with a tired smile and holding it out.
“Drink, love?”
Jazz obediently takes a sip, and then another, reluctantly enjoying the way the thick, rich fuel soaks into his throat, eases rough cabling. A few alerts on his HUD disappear as his fuel levels return to normal percentages and ugh, boosts his energy too, cools down his overheating frame.
Jazz offlines his optics in brief bliss, soaking in the taste and Prowl’s field meshing with Jazz’s own, blanketing him in love.
When Jazz onlines his optics, Prowl is looking at him, optics wide and processor humming faintly in Jazz’s audials, drinking in the sight of Jazz at the highest possible capacity, staring at Jazz drinking his energon as though it’s a battle plan, as though it’s a battle, as though it’s the most fascinating stream of data in the universe, or maybe just as though Jazz is the most fascinating thing in the universe, and Prowl doesn’t dare look away lest he miss anything at all, and Jazz swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. Prowl’s servos are light on Jazz’s waist, and Jazz catches one, squeezes.
“Prowler? Somethin’ wrong?”
At Prowl’s confused expression, Jazz clarifies. “Just… staring at me like you think you can work out all the secrets of the universe if ya look long enough.”
Prowl smiles like sunlight breaking through cloud cover at long last, shrugs with an easy roll of his doorwings. “It’s nothing,” Prowl says, reaches out and gently cups Jazz’s sparkchamber, where the newspark hums and trills at their sire’s presence. “I just love you.” Like it’s a pillar of the universe, Prowl says it like it’s some fundamental fact, and Jazz rolls over, has to bury his face in the pillows, he’s blushing so hard, pretty sure you could melt iron on his face right now, newspark and spark both humming with glee at Prowlerhereloveneed, too much to handle. Prowl’s servo touches Jazz’s back carefully.
“Jazz?”
Jazz can’t take it anymore, rolls over, loops his arms around Prowl’s neck and yanks him down to kiss properly, damnit, Prowl making a startled little squeak noise that is so damn adorable, and Jazz attempts to convey that with interpretive dance via his glossa, figures Prowl gets the message when Prowl moans into his mouth and deepens the kiss.
Prowl is hot and pliable above him, panel a hard line of heat against Jazz’s valve, grinding against him slowly, nowhere near fast enough, and Prowl moves from his mouth to press light, nipping kisses along Jazz’s neck, delicate cabling crackling, jolts of charge flooding Jazz’s frame.
“Good?” Prowl’s vents are hot against Jazz’s audials, and Jazz jolts, sensitive, every inch of his frame humming by now, and Prowl does that soft little laugh he does when he’s about to keep Jazz on the edge until he’s crying and begging, coming undone for his Prowler, until finally Prowl lets him come, and uh-uh, none of that today, Prowl starts to say something, but Jazz grips down with his thighs, cutting off whatever smooth teasing aftholery he was gonna come out with by grinding down, wrapping his pedes tight around Prowl’s legs to lock them together.
Frag yeah. Thassit. Jazz moans loudly, hitches his hips up, squeezes when Prowl tries to move. Uh-uh, baby, he had his chance, Prowler proceeded to be all smug and slick about it, and while Jazz won’t deny it’s slagging hot when he acts like that, right now Jazz just needs him. If that means Jazz has to take control, well. Jazz can do what needs to be done in the service of getting him done by Prowl.
Jazz pushes out of Prowl’s grip, shoves his aft back against Prowl for good measure before flipping them, turning to properly straddle him, needing more than just friction, needing Prowl.
Prowler is still a little sleepy, optics still slightly blurred when Jazz gets a full long look at him, doorwings sprawled out onto the pillows, and Jazz feels a slight twinge of guilt for waking his mate.
He probably could’ve handled it, right? He woulda been fine.
Prowl growls, reaching clumsily for him, optics alight with desire, and the guilt goes away to be replaced by the flood of Jazz’s own desire.
Jazz settles his weight fully onto Prowl with a groan, digits scrabbling for the clasps on Prowl’s interface panel, unwilling to spend any longer than he has to on teasing.
“I- let me,” Prowl’s servos cover Jazz’s, panel snapping open and spike pressurizing against Jazz’s thigh.
“ Prowl,” Jazz gasps, cooling fans clicking up a notch at the sight of him, his Prowl. Jazz wraps his servo around Prowl’s spike, idly rubs a digit along the head of his spike and gets an answering wriggle from Prowler that sends charge pulsing along his frame, a delicious roil of static.
“Come here,” Prowl murmurs, trying to sit up, and Jazz pushes him back down, squeezing his thighs warningly. Jazz is in charge now, and he’s gonna have some fun.
Prowl backs down, servos settling on Jazz’s hips to look up at him.
Jazz takes a moment to appreciate it, Prowl beneath him, doorwings spread wide and optics fixed on him, and then he begins to move.
At first, just tantalizing rolls of his hips, rubbing his valve along Prowl’s thigh, his hip, anterior node throbbing at every movement, the ridges of Prowl’s plating a fragging Primussend, bright shine of lubricant left behind by every movement, and Prowl seems almost hypnotized by it, by him, gazing up at him with near reverence.
Prowler is nice and hard underneath Jazz, trembling a little with pent up desire, and Jazz decides to take pity on him after a bit.
He lifts one servo real casually from the berth where it’s planted, makes sure Prowl’s attention is on what he’s doing as he rubs it against his slick valve to get it nice and wet, nearly falls over at the way a long strip of inner nodes are stimulated by even the blunt movement, ooh yeah.
Jazz takes a sec to finger himself where Prowl can see, puts on that show he’d been fantasizing about, and gets rave reviews judging by Prowl’s fans and general noises and facial expressions, all very enthusiastic about this latest live performance Jazz has going on.
Jazz indulges a little longer, pumps his digits in and out, at one point holding them out to see the way lubricant strings between them, shines on his digits like the finest gloss.
Prowl’s optics go wide, drinking him in, and Jazz grabs a quick set of image captures to send to Prowl later before sticking to his original plan, sloppily rubbing his valve along his servo and then wrapping it around Prowl’s spike.
Jazz gives Prowl’s spike a nice, slow pump, revelling in the gasp and moan that elicits from Prowl, the way the spike twitches in Jazz’s servo, beads of prefluid dripping out, and Jazz can’t help himself, slides his digits to catch it before sticking them in his mouth to taste, mingled flavors of Prowl and Jazz’s own lubricants on his glossa.
“Jazz. Jazz.” Prowl jerks his hips up, clearly a big fan of that trick, make a note for later. Jazz sucks on his servos until he’s sure clean, then draws them out to snicker.
“Need something? Hey, I kinda like this. You look good from up here.”
Prowl pushes up against Jazz’s thighs in a threatening way, and Jazz swallows, squeezes a little tighter.
They’ve gotta do something with handcuffs, maybe, Prowl tied up and growly about it, straining at them as Jazz teases, yeah, that sounds fun, and then Jazz has to grab the berth hard with both servos, letting Prowl’s spike go, sadly, in order to stabilize himself as Prowl presses up, nearly tipping them.
“Hey! Careful, you’re gonna jar the newspark!”
Prowl immediately stills, doorwings flattening in sudden alarm. “Are you sure— will they be alright— Should I call Ratchet?”
“ Baby. As long as you’re not throwing me around, it’ll be fine. Now hold still, we had a real great thing going here.”
Jazz gets his servo around Prowl’s spike again, squirms a little from his seat on Prowl’s thighs with glee, settles himself just above it to lower himself down, just a bit. He rubs the head of Prowler’s spike along his valve lips, just barely dipping in, spreading lubricant around until his movements are slick and near frictionless, tilts himself so he’s grinding along his anterior node and moans loudly, hips jerking a bit at the sensation buzzing up through his wires, good.
Prowl makes a sparkfelt groan like he’s dying, and Jazz offlines half his visor in a cheeky wink before doing it again, rocking back and forth on that stiff hot pressure.
Prowl’s hips move to meet him, spike pressing further up into him, spreading his rim open, the head of his spike just barely filling Jazz, and Jazz clenches around it, pops himself up and down so the rim of his valve flutters, ring of nodes around it humming with pleasure.
Prowl thrusts up again, spike bobbing as he tries to get more, but poor Prowler ain’t in control anymore, and Jazz pulls off.
“What’s the magic word ?”
“ Jazz,” Prowl grinds out, vocalizer clicking and fans roaring, a sexy mess beneath him, and Jazz totally gets it now, the sweet taste of power, of teasing, why Prowl likes it so much, though Jazz figures Prowl isn’t so much into what Jazz is so very looking forward to once his control slips, the oh so good comeuppance for his naughty ways.
“Mmmm, nah. Try again!”
Jazz leans back enough to give Prowl a million shanix shot of his valve, slick and swollen and aching, gives his node a firm tweak, and then another, doesn’t hold back, “ah, ah, Prowl, fuuuck ,” some Earth curses just for the novelty, sliding himself along the underside of Prowl’s spike, valve clenching useless onto the width of it, moaning prettily.
“ Please, Jazz.”
“Please— unh, ple ase, wha-a-at.” He’s gotta get Prowl’s control, the way even in the middle of interface he can sound cool as a cucumber most of the time, and Jazz gives his node a flick half cuz he knows Prowl, knows his lover is just aching to do the same, and half for the bright burst of charge flaring through Jazz’s frame, wriggling uncontrollably at it.
And the thing is, with pretty much everyone else, even when he’s giving up control, sometimes especially when he’s giving up control, he’s still got it, that steadiness tucked away, but then he’s with Prowl, and it all melts away, leaving Jazz astride Prowl, ostensibly as in charge as he’s gonna get without bringing in some props, and still feeling loose and desperate.
Prowl breaks then, thrusts uselessly up. “Do that around my spike, please.” He’s got that look on his face like Jazz is gonna be tender and sore in the best kinds of ways for days after, and Jazz indulges like he coulda held back more anyway, leaning forward to try to fully sink himself down onto it with a single move, makes it about two thirds of the way before he has to stabilize himself and moan.
Jazz is loosened up from his own digits and the false spike, but not so much that he can’t enjoy the delicious stretch of Prowl’s spike.
He’s so charged up, so needy by now that the slow slide is nearly enough to bump him up to overload, inner nodes pulsing, filled to the brim by his Prowler.
Prowl looks slightly stunned, field hazy, like he’s having some kind of religious experience from Jazz sitting on his spike, and for all Jazz might poke fun, he’s not much better. It’s been too long since they did this, disregard how long it’s actually been, too long since he’s had Prowler.
Jazz squeezes his calipers and is met with an answering blast of charge, visor flickering as he adjusts, then starts to move.
Jazz lifts up a bit, settles himself back down, this time all the way, flush with Prowl’s pelvic plating and oh, Primus, Jazz sees stars.
Prowl surges against him, spike grinding into Jazz’s ceiling node as he pushes himself up, finally breaking Jazz’s grip to hold him there, and Jazz is momentarily too busy gasping and whimpering at the feeling to stop him, is more than content to rock his hips in Prowl’s lap, cycling his calipers over and over as his charge builds. He’s close, or he hasn’t gotten far away from it since he woke up, coding clamoring for a good hard frag, and he’s almost there, almost, almost.
Prowl’s kissing him again, lips warm along his neck, rising up to his audial horn, heat rising with him, and then Prowl licks his audial horn just as he hits a fantastic angle of a thrust, and Jazz’s vocalizer spits static as he overloads, moaning into Prowl’s neck as he tries to ride it, building in a great crashing wave that’s still not enough, and Jazz nearly screams as it dissipates, still spread open on Prowl’s spike, biolights glowing and nodes throbbing, anterior node a swollen nub that needs Prowl’s digits on it a joor ago, and it’s still not satisfaction.
Jazz pistons his hips, squeezes his calipers faster, shoving Prowl back down to ride him properly. He pulls off all the way, valve cold in the loss of Prowl’s body heat, then sinks back down quicker than before, up and down, bouncing on Prowl’s spike, and that gets a good reaction, Prowl’s doorwings flaring over and over, smacking against the berth with the smack of Jazz’s aft on his plating.
“Not enough,” Jazz whimpers out, rubbing frantically at his node, hips shaking at the flood of sensation, and he’s close again, he’s not getting anywhere, and he can’t, why can’t he? Jazz shivers through another weak overload, barely worth it, tears starting to drip down his cheeks from sheer frustration.
“I have you, love, I have you,” Prowl is saying, sitting up, spike shifting in Jazz’s valve, nodes lighting up with each movement, and Jazz doesn’t fight it, leans into Prowl and allows him to arrange Jazz as he chooses.
Pillows slide under Jazz’s front, propping him up and cushioning the newspark, and Jazz burrows deeper into them, obediently lifting his hips at Prowl’s gentle touch.
“That’s it, good, so good for me, yes?”
Jazz nods into the pillows, realizes Prowl can’t see it, and puts up a shaky thumbs up. Prowl laughs and kisses the back of his helm.
“Thank you, darling.”
Jazz might cry a little bit at that, or it might just be steam from his plating, and y’know what, it’s okay if it is tears, he’s in a sensitive state and being called darling with long, slow strokes down his back, easing the ever present tension there from the swell of the newspark in his sparkchamber, is really doing it for him. catching his vents in the berth.
Jazz raises one pede, then the other so Prowl can put a pillow beneath them, getting on his knees to Prowl’s direction, so thoroughly padded by now it feels like he’s floating. Jazz props his helm up on folded arms, looks back to see Prowl a step away, carefully examining the pose he’s got Jazz in before sliding one more pillow beneath Jazz’s elbow, and Jazz has to laugh, sending a pulse of utter love and affection through the sparkbond as he does so.
“Not made ‘f glass. You, you can get a little rough.” Jazz tilts his hips up a little more, wriggles his aft invitingly.
“I’m taking precautions so I can.”
“Have you considered
post
caution? Bein’ uh, a cautionary tale? You can be a, a ghost story, wooo, the Praxian that didn’t frag his poor needy mate so, uh, his spike fell off and ran away. Very sad, unfortunate for everyone, great loss for the world.”
Jazz flops his face back into the pillows. Prowl
laughs.
It’s one of the top sounds in the world ever, and Jazz is a musician, he is
so
qualified to make that statement.
“‘His spike fell off.’” Prowl’s heat pets against Jazz’s frame, more lubricant spilling out just at the anticipation of Prowl’s touch.
“Mhm,” Jazz says into the berth. “It’s a tragic ballad.” He hums a few notes, explanatorily.
Prowl considers this, and Jazz basks in the temporary calm from the carrier coding between an overload around his mate’s spike, and the sure knowledge he’s about to get another one.
“One of these days,” Prowl says consideringly, “I’m going to gag you, and then I’m going to use a vibrator on you until you overload so many times, you can’t think, can only moan around the gag, and maybe then you’ll stop being so unrepentantly awful.”
Prowl punctuates his sentence with the lightest swat to Jazz’s aft, and the charge and carrier coding come roaring back, nearly fritzing out his frame.
“Would you like that?”
“ Yes, yes yes yes, ten outta ten idea, though I gotta warn ya, not, not so optimistic on the results as you seem to be, better try it out an’ make sure, yeah, yeah?”
“Another day,” Prowl says, voice heavy with lust, and then he leans in and licks Jazz’s valve, shuffles forward on his knees on the berth to lap wide, heavy strokes with his glossa, licking up lubricant with soft wet smacks, and Jazz trembles and shakes, elbows pressed into the berth as Prowl eats him out.
Jazz is panting by the time Prowl stops, so wet he’s probably puddling onto the berth, thighs soaked with lubricant, starts to make a complaining noise about the stopping, always with the stopping, cut off when Prowl hilts his spike in Jazz in a single long stroke, every node in his valve lighting up, and Prowl pulls out, sinks in again, harder.
Prowl’s servos squeeze Jazz’s hips, pulling him up further, back arching in a way that might ache, especially with the newspark, if not for the massage Prowl had given him there earlier, great thinking there, Prowler, and then Jazz isn’t thinking anymore at all, processor hazy with pleasure as Prowl pounds into him.
The ridges on Prowl’s spike rub against him, stimulating nodes, spreading calipers wide and clinging, hips clanging against Jazz’s aft in sharp bursts of sensation a delightful counterpoint to the deep throb of Prowl’s spike, to each powerful thrust into Jazz’s valve.
Jazz’s moans are muffled by the pillows, unable to muster enough processor power to lift his helm.
Prowl’s movements are becoming increasingly more frantic, roughly rutting into Jazz’s valve, and Jazz can feel the rim of his valve beginning to catch, the base of Prowl’s spike spreading it over and over with each thrust as his knot begins to swell.
Jazz pushes his hips back best he can, cycling his calipers desperately to try and catch onto the knot, to catch the transfluid, gestation tank open and ready for Prowl’s nanites, but then Prowl stops.
Jazz’s comm suite gets a ping in the next moment, query: agent compromised, and Jazz nearly sets off a full spec ops alert as he sends back green, green all the way, and Prowl’s next thrust hits his ceiling node dead on, overload ozone in Jazz’s mouth as Prowl tugs back one last time, valve making an audible pop noise around Prowl’s knot before sinking back in for a final drag along nodes.
“I love you,” Prowl gasps against Jazz’s neck, digits finding his anterior node and rubbing, and Jazz overloads, valve clenching down and sending Prowl with him, transfluid flooding Jazz’s valve, scalding his internals and washing against the gestation chamber, coding singing at the perfection of it all, at how good it feels.
Jazz’s hips fall, gyroscopes spinning and struts liquid, Prowl collapsing after him, a heavy weight atop his frame, a few last pulses of transfluid filling Jazz.
For awhile they lay there, panting, frames interlocked so much Jazz can’t tell where he ends and Prowl begins, and a stray thought of regret that they can’t really merge in this position is replaced with the much more immediate stress when Prowl moves a bit, and Jazz realizes how very squashed he is right now.
“Mmp! Can’t breathe!”
Prowl rolls off of him with a groan, taking Jazz with him, given they’re still tied together by the knot, and Jazz pushes at him, both of them maneuvering until Prowl leans against the wall their berth is against, and Jazz sits on his lap, back to front. Jazz wriggles a bit to test the knot, sucks in a deep vent as he finds it very secure.
The carrier coding and deeper parts of Jazz crow about what a good strong mate he has, what a perfect sire for his sparkling, how great this is. The more practical, head of spec ops side of Jazz points out that now he gets to sit and wait for the knot to go down, just impaled on Prowl’s spike for the next half joor, easily.
The bit of Jazz’s spark that is Prowl’s spark, an echo of the bond, sends a proud, possessive surge through the bond, and Jazz’s smile is instinctive even as he thunks his helm back against Prowl with a sigh.
“How do you feel?”
Jazz twists enough to let Prowl see his sunniest, soppiest smile, field warm with satisfaction.
“Nice. Yeah, pretty okay.”
“Just okay?”
Jazz is never gonna get tired of teasing Prowler! It’s just too easy, the way Prowl, well, just can’t help being utterly devoted. Poor darling, really. Who couldn’t be, with this frame? Jazz is basically irresistible.
“Yeah, I’d say. Not terrible, by any means, just— oh!”
Prowl scrapes his dentae over Jazz’s neck menacingly, cabling scratching beneath his teeth.
“ You’re terrible,” Prowl says, and licks the scrape, soothing the sting.
“Hey! What if I really did find our fragging mediocre, huh? What then?”
“Well… I suppose that would mean we’re unfortunately incompatible, so I would simply have to wait for the knot to subside before getting up and finding a new partner. I’ve been thinking a lot about Optimus lately, honestly, there’s something about him, not to mention the power dynamics are compelling—”
“ What. No.”
Jazz sits bolt upright, turning to face Prowl indignantly. Prowl’s face is concerningly blank, like he’s actually considering it.
“You-you wouldn’t leave me, right? Right? Prowl, don’t joke like that, it’s not funny, I’m delicate right now, you ass!”
Prowl’s arms immediately engulf him, Prowl’s helm dropping onto Jazz’s shoulder as he holds him.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You’re right, I shouldn’t tease. No, I would never leave you, not unless you asked, I promise, I swear it.”
Jazz’s sigh of relief is a little too honest.
“Okay. Okay. Cool.”
Prowl nuzzles his neck, dropping kisses along the cabling, and Jazz relaxes into it for a while, savoring the soft ache in his joints working itself out, the warmth of Prowl, the sensation of fullness in his valve and spark.
“…You don’t find our interface mediocre, right?”
“...Prowler, I’m pretty sure you rebooted all my systems, I am literally bonded to you, I am having your sparkling, if you were that concerned about it, you shoulda said somethin’ earlier than this.”
“…that's not an answer.”
“ Yes, baby, darlin’, light of my life, spark of my spark, I adore your spike which if ya might’ve noticed I am currently happily seated upon, I adore our berthgames, the thing you do with your glossa, when you tie me up and are so mean to me in the most fan tastic of ways, I am very satisfied with your spike.” Jazz pauses, and gives a considering look.
“The frame it’s attached to ain’t bad either.”
Prowl makes a noise between a grumble and badly held back snickering, and Jazz’s own laughter breaks free, bending over and cackling with glee, shaking with his own hilarity, and the motions are enough to send Prowl into another overload, transfluid gushing into Jazz with tiny gasps, squirms of his hips as he tries to adjust to the new weight, the feeling of being stuffed even further.
Prowl puts a deeply possessive hand on the curve of Jazz’s sparkchamber, even as he declares loftily, “You’re awful and I don’t know why I put up with you.”
“Hmm. Is it cuz I put out?” Jazz wriggles his aft cheerfully, quite content.
“Well. It’s certainly not your sparkling wit.” Prowl kisses the top of Jazz’s helm. “Nor your silver glossa.” A kiss further down his helm. “Not your singing voice, or the way you perform, or your obsession with earth music, none of that.” A delicate kiss to the top of Jazz’s audial horn.
“It couldn’t possibly be your intelligence, not when you use it to such terrible ends. Nor how good you are at your job, how utterly, beautifully competent you are. And speaking of, not how beautiful you are, in face and spark and laugh and frame, none of those.” Prowl kisses Jazz’s very blue cheek.
“Not your knives, not how you look spattered in energon and grinning triumphantly, not the way you make other people feel better, myself certainly not included.”
Prowl kisses Jazz’s jaw, featherlight.
“So if it’s not any of those, not the way you look at me, or bring me energon, or cheer me up, not the way you dance, not your valve or how you laugh or come back home to me from a bad night and ask me to hold you…”
Prowl drags his lips along Jazz’s jawline, Jazz’s spark cyberrabbit fast, pounding in him wherever Prowl’s lips are.
“If it’s not that, and not just something about you, greater than all of those parts put together, something spellbinding and unique that draws me to you that I might call perfection, except that wouldn’t be fair to you, to put you on a pedestal like that, and your flaws, the way you’re still working around them, only serve to make you better, make you unsurpassingly lovely… Well. If it’s not that, or any of that, I suppose I just can’t think of a reason. Not a single one.”
“Really,” Jazz says, grinning so wide his cheeks and spark ache, pulling his silly, sarcastic Prowler over to almost fully face him at the angle they’re at, enough for a proper kiss. “Cuz I can think of a few.”
When their lips finally meet, it’s like coming home.